Desert Dew

by A.I. Christensen

I could imagine 
the dew before the sun with you—crisp
droplets clinging 
to each grass blade, bending,
the sun casting light
over Eastern hills—a fishing line,
nightcrawler landing 
on grass, each blade clung to by those 
crisp
dew
droplets,
and the blades bending ever so slightly.
​
The nightcrawler stretching,

flexing

​into the soft earth.

But in the desert,
the morning sun sees 
cacti tighten
their stomachs, bristles sharp— 
no nightcrawler. This sun is no fisherman, but 
a hunter,
a killer.

Here we perch
boulder beneath 
us—rough
on your flesh and mine.
And the Hunter diffracts
over the valley, golden 
brushstrokes against the sandstone giants,
rounded, bulbous.

Maybe, if we hurry,
our sun will only attack the cacti 
and the rocks—they can take it, 
as they have.
And we will be safe
in the city,
the house— 
the couch,
                 carpet between our toes.

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