Have you been to the desert?

Where it isn't sand, but dust,

Where the ground -- it moves, it lives,

Like water,

Like the current,

Like it doesn't know where to settle.

And where my boots smack hard against the packed clay.

And they scrape a layer off the top,

And upheave what little had planted itself in that place,

And force it, too, into the wind,

And to places unknown.

And there, you'll find me.

The dust. Yeah. I think. If anything else...

The littered bones, too.

The absent flesh,

The only evidence of life, anywhere.

The shadow of a coyote,

The wake of a vulture.

The negative space:

The best portrait of myself nature could paint.