Snow glistens in the soft light from several tall poles
in the parking lot. A rare visitor to
saguaros and puzzled coyotes, the wet
white blanket pushes reluctant mesquite tree
limbs toward the ground and transforms decorative
red stones into contoured earth murals that disappear into
the darkness just before morning light.
Anomalies are abundant in the Sonoran Desert. A single
yellow flower blooms in a spoonful of dirt, sheltered
in the crevice of a huge boulder. A grouping of cholla cactus glows in
morning’s first light, beautiful to see, painful to touch.
And snow sculpts startled vehicles in the parking lot, a
soft white covering spread over asphalt and earth,
temporary, just passing through.
By lunch time, the ground will be moist, but
the visitor will have vanished into an intolerant warm wind,
leaving no baggage behind. Except for tiny white crystals
clustered at the base of the little yellow flower
as it reaches from the jagged crack
in ancient stone for light and life.
But until first light creeps over the mountain
and spills into the desert valley, soft snowflakes
tumble from the black sky, drift through revealing
parking lot light and struggle to embrace the earth,
even for a moment.
Sonoran Desert Writer 