The sky here is blue.
It is a
flawless, synthetic,
artificial blue.
no clouds.
crystalline clear.
dopamine dizzy-ing.

At 3 in the afternoon,
the watermelons are beige,
studded with the black
of my piñon and ponderosa.

The sky fades from that
sky blue to blue.
invigorating turquoise hidden
somewhere in the grainy static
of gradient.

The husk of some flower
grovels at my feet.
parched.
deceptively soft
from its multitudes of pricking seeds.
self-interest?
Begs for the sustence it desires.
But it only drizzles on sunny days.

There are no sunny days
in my desert.

Chamisa puffs carpet the
grit and dirt.
foul-smelling,
they radiate in the sun a toasted wheat color.
The cholla grow between
with spiked fruits, accessible by only
the few; the birds with yellow eyes.
The nebulus of thin grass
glows shades of purple and dust rose.
the rattlesnake entwines itself in
that pink embrace.

Yellow, green, brown.
brown, gold, wheat.
Lay down amongst my desert.

I am covered with the curls of the gamma grass,
uncurling and curling,
curling and uncurling.
the desert complains to me,
as the undeserving grow with
the spikes, the venom, the deception.
The dryness and competition for water.
A competition for survival,
the mountains loom over in stern watch,
the outcome is unsteady,
as sandy winds blow beneath.

I pull my eyes upward
to the sky.
My world is just blue, blue sky.
live unconcerned.
no clouds.
The bluest,
blue sky.