Into the desert.
Road signs peppered like a
wasteland war.
The air is solid with evenings
coolness stepping in.
Jack rabbits feet sing out an
escape, hoping for luck.
A lunar terrain, scattered
with hungry plants and
starving weeds.
The sun fell into a distant
comfortable corner.
Stars hold their distance,
offering an occasional blink.
People write about the desert.
Few visit. Some stay when their
heart tells them to.
Roger Singer 