july dances sunward, we drift hazy dawn to dusk.
crops green, even under desert’s harsh light.
water and wind tangle on the peaks, gray and heavy, they never stray. all our water comes from the mountains. everyone out here measures the inches, the fury, the power of the storms. they count the drifts’ hopes, all through winter’s ice. until summer’s wilding melt-water canals run full.
i watch lightning slice cloud from dust.
our high desert, our home, it shimmers like everything they promised heaven would be. but it’s here. blue to blue, there is so much light. even at 4am, i can find light from the darkness. this must be what people feel when they say ‘home’.
i am home.
‘Hello? Shade? I have missed hearing from you. Have you been too busy to call me?’
‘oh, hi, mom.’
‘I suppose since you moved so far away, you’ve forgotten your family?’
‘no, no i haven’t. i’ve just… i haven’t felt like talking.’
‘Oh, well, that’s no excuse and you know it. We love you so much. I don’t understand why you had to move so far away. Don’t you know you do better with us around?’
‘oh, i like it so much out here. it’s quiet, and there are mountains. we love it.’
‘You don’t know what’s good for you, not really. I can’t believe you talked North into going that far away. He should know better than to listen to you.’
‘his job is good, we like it out here so much.’
‘Well, I suppose I’ll have to have Jaeger talk with him. He needs to learn what family responsibility means. You need help raising Christmas.’
‘he’s fine. we’re doing fine.’
‘You need to be careful with him, that he doesn’t turn out like you. I wish we’d started younger with you, tried harder. I suppose we can’t change that now.’
he’s face-pressed to window, watching light and shadow move along ground. trees waving, scraping against sky, he is blue-blue to the world. his toys are 2 and 3, grouped by shape and size. his world shapes around light, laughter, hope.
‘he’s not like me. he’s not like me at all, he’s a good boy. and we love him so much.’
‘Well, you just never know.’
‘i have to go now.’
‘Well, you’re always in our hearts and in our prayers. Remember, I love you.’
wind blows from west to east, tumbleweeds gather. small conclaves, rootless wanderers. it is the seasonal migration of crooked lines and spiky weeds. they jump, they wheel.
my words are lost.
this is my home.