It used to be the trees

who spoke to me.

It was the branches

I sought for direction

And leaves I looked to for protection.

All my life I ran to the forest

for it was all I knew.

Now I know more

I’ve seen something else…

I’ve moved to land without a single tree

and it’s as if

canyon country was made for me.

I walk among great big stone walls

and look down

into crumbling canyons

that do not speak to me,

they sing.

Out here the wind

whistles and whoops and hollers

I let the sun seep into my skin

as I always have,

like I’ve always loved.

But now I need more

than a sunny day

to keep my demons at bay.

It’s the rain I revere

and hold so dear.

It’s the slow drips

I cannot skip

for I know one thing:

rain in the desert is magic.

Even when the skies are blue

and the rock is dry,

every inch of this place is

shaped by water.

One hundred days of drought

is nothing I worry about

for the water will come

when it’s good and ready

and all at once!

Overwhelmingly magnificent

rain

will

flood.

Tearing through this landscape

gurgling brown and

bubbling black,

swiftly cutting through every crack

calling me back

to invisible roots.

To walk with water

is to know my own magic.

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