The desert is fevered in heat.
Dry without compassion.
Life on the edge of edges.
A moment in the sun risks
everything.
The temperature is a million
candles, burning sand into glass.
There is no running. Breathing
is labored. Hats fail at being hats.
Desert sound is silent at night.
Flying creatures move without friction.
Crawling things birth odd tracks.
The moon appears, but not for long.
Roger Singer 