hot,
soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to many to come home.
the sands
of the desert
are
nothing like the beach
irreplaceable when searching,
that one place needed to bring balance,
harmony
back to a life torn apart,
a life
full of sorrow, full of emptiness.
hot,
soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to many to come home.
to some
the ocean brings this harmony --
the rising, crashing crescendo of the waves,
and
the disarming squawks of the seagulls,
providing
for them the environment to reflect.
but
the desert brings something very different,
that
which is sought by a special few, total solitude.
hot,
soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to many to come home.
feeling
the heat emanate from these sands
waves
of heat pouring through the body,
while
the soft, hot winds blow,
they
send their message, calling all
to return
to this place for needed balance,
needed harmony, to a place untouched by time.
and the
hot, soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to many to come home.
the call
of the desert is strong
to those
who know it well --
those who are connected to it.
it courses through their veins,
pumping
the lifeblood
through their bodies.
and hot,
soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to many to come home.
so she
races to this place,
driving
many miles to reach it,
following the windy dirt road.
many,
many times has she gone here
on the
blue highways in her mind,
always
returning to Fish Creek.
hot,
soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to many to come home.
the call
to her is strong.
always
has it been, always will it be,
whether
it be in her waking hours
or those
of deep sleep, when it comes,
always
beckoning to her, calling her back home.
here
her spirit can seek needed renewal.
so the
hot, soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to her to come home.
many
things drive her to go there
though
one eats at them continuously,
bringing
confusion, and a need to escape,
yet a longing, one that cannot be defined.
why
this happens is not understood
but
the desert's pull is strongest then.
hot,
soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to her to come home.
what
is it about this desert,
the
only one which calls to her?
it is
in her blood as is something else.
she
must go to continue
never
to be separated from it
for
without it she would die.
hot,
soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to her to come home.
here
her raging emotions are met
with
the solace, the peace of the desert,
not
just any desert but that of Arizona,
a wilderness
area that must be preserved.
so much
goes on here since she left
that
slowly it destroys them.
hot,
soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to those to come home.
water
supplies are drying up for the Dine'
because
that evil monster peabody
continues
to strip mine Black Mesa.
slurries continue to drain pristine water,
much
needed by many to survive.
prayers are offered in the four directions.
hot,
soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to her to come home.
though
this is far to the north of her destination,
still
it pulls at her as the golden eagle flies,
almost causing a change in her direction.
but
something else has called her here,
far
to the south, a place always a part of her,
Fish Creek Canyon, the Superstitions.
hot,
soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to those to come home.
this
place feels sacred, sacred to her,
a place
to disappear, to lose herself,
to break
away from all distractions,
going deep into the canyon,
following
the dry riverbed ,
lined sporadically with mesquite.
hot,
soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to those to come home.
ominous,
black clouds gather in the sky,
choking
off the light from the sun,
the
air heavy with the promise of rain,
flashes of lightening in the distance
closely matching the black mood within,
that brought on by deep thought.
hot,
soft winds blow over the desert,
calling
to those to come home.
rumbling
is soon heard in the distance
as a
hint of moisture begins to fall
quickly
turning into a downpour as the sky cries
for
all the pain that she feels, all the broken dreams,
for
all the injustice against others, all the broken promises.
it is
the storm which rages within.
yet hot,
soft winds blow over the desert
calling
her to come home.
desert sands 