Member-only story
POETRY
I stand on the outer edge of the group
watching the Organ Mountains
cut against the streaked sky.
Ripples spiral in unison
answering the evening winds
a chime of smooth granules sings.
Upended rainbow-colored sand sleds
dot the dunes and spin towards home
as a ranger calls for the last crowd.
Scratched grains of selenite
blow over from the dried lake bed
and settle into 60 ft. white dunes.
Families herd children too small
to understand this fragile system
where mineral-rich water flows from mountains.
A water table mere inches below
the desert’s scathing surface
drained off by parched lawns in towns below.
Do not siphon me away it begs,
but its whisper is soon dampened
by engines rushing to cities thirsty and new.
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