Desert/forest/life

This desert is Mojave,
all swelter and heat
and swishes and huts.
Its ruts and roads hold
the wooden weeds and cauldron clay, huddled near
the skeletal anthills and
the rescinding sidewinder.
That tireless howl. It prays
a monastery ritual, begs for rain.

This forest is California,
it peaks and timbers
and pales and twilights.
Its heights dwell above
the bungalow buildings and city cinders, shuttered in
the saline valleys and
the settling fogs.
That sobbing breeze. It fans
a bellows gust, cries for justice.

This life is origami,
all creases and folds
and cracks and fades.
It wades deeper than
the floating fortresses and stranded schooners, gliding above
the shingle nests and
the naked ocean.
That sea-borne wind. It moans
a sailor lament, pleads for mercy.