The heat descended upon April
with a strangler's hand, shushing
the wind with frightening confidence.
Dust rose with our footsteps on
the dry trail, spring seedlings already
brittle underfoot. Even the lizards avoided
the sun this morning, choosing instead to
bask in the shade of stale colored rocks.
This should be the month of green,
our shoes whisper to the scrub oaks,
the coyote brush. So easily we forget
our base existence is desert, that this
parched earth mimics our own thirst -
California, you are a barren chatelaine,
kissing with cracked and peeling lips.
We are all masochists in your presence,
reveling in the grit and chafe, a withered
tongue, the sweltering hand at our throats.
You scare me, with your words that are so easy to follow.
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