Land parched by a lifetime of waterless journies, dotted with deathweeds and craggy mesas, home to tarantulas that jump twenty feet, that make me sweat even in my sleep. One chased me in a dream, and I still see it's beady eyes glowing at sunrise, competing with the brightness of a solar washed morning. Some days I step out in bare toes, just to feel the sand scrub my soles and the ants crawl across my feet. I walk along the trail left by ancient conquests, and give names to the Saguaros, because they remind me of tall men. Once, the el Nino rains washed away the desert gray, and for a moment everything bloomed, weeds bled seeds into the creosote, and the once arid dirt became a watery tomb. On normal days when the colors of sage and eggplant, infuse with the turquoise at the end of day, I feel compelled to kneel down and give humble praise to this barren earth crackled by a million days.
