The desert speaks with buzzing flies
and other insects I can’t name.
Or is it wind through creosote
or gentle moans of ocotillo flute?
My shoes crunch on paths made by others.
Millennia’s forgotten sons and daughters
on layered rust- and pistachio-colored rock,
on crusted caramel mesas
under the whipped-cream clouds.
Stones speak stories overheard:
how—at night—Orion pointed the way
of the Moon Walk,
when the people looked for light
and found it.