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What is it about the desert
That moves me so?
Maybe it’s stillness,
The vast, harsh purity,
And clean air.

Like early teenage memories
Of Summer.
Always Summer.
Hot.
Still.
Quiet.
Alone but not lonely.

Just in my head, thinking.
Hyper-aware of my surroundings
And listening to music.
Always music.

There’s a different music out here:
A raven's call and the sound
Of its powerful wings in flight.

The faint rustle of a lizard in the scrub.
The movement a phantom
In your peripheral vision.

The quiet crunch of your footsteps
In the sand and gravel beneath.

The sound of your breath.
Your heartbeat.

The occasional faint roar of jets,
The visual cue of their location:
Contrails lacing each other
Like loosely woven fabric.

But mostly it’s
Quiet.
Still.
Alone but not lonely.
And Summer.
Always Summer.

— Robert J. Webster