It is winter at the high desert,
Everything is a tone of grey or brown.
Nothing is straight.
The wind has bent and bowed all
That is above the cold
The crooked scrub pine will
Grow anywhere it can,
Even if it is out of a wretched rock.
And before its time, it is
Gnarled and worn from the
There is brush that is sage and
Juniper rolling away after
It has been broken by
The frozen elements.
There is not much else.
Animals roam and scurry searching
For the nourishment
That sustains them.
But as it is so with all of life,
And as it will always be,
When you’re there,
And you look over to the mountains
And you look down at the canyons
And when you see for miles the level vastness,
When you stand up straight, upright against the wind,
Standing as tall as you possibly can, then
My God in heaven, you feel alive.