An invasion of half-tones,
slowly growing cells below
a veil of brilliant yellow blooms,
covering the bones of Christ,
rattling in loose satchels
on a wandering mule,
looking for Spring
in Death Valley.

Hear the clicking, clicking,
coming together before sleep,
a clock of mystery,
when nothing is left
but dry seeds,
a western plain hugging
the heat, hugging despair and
hoping for rain.