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
walk silent
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.


  1. Ms. Sigal, you are absolutely a poet and not a would-be poet! This is amazing and because I love the desert, it truly spoke to me!

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