| WHEN THE RED SUN SMOULDERS |  |
| By Bruce W. McDaniel | |
| Pray tell me, friend, does the desert
speak When the red sun smoulders o'er Pinto Peak? And what may one see in that blazing land Of painted hills and panting sand? Ocotillos swaying With a touch of royal grace, Leaving scars and etchings On the desert's sandy face. Dancing devils whirling Past staring rock and dune, Keeping step and dancing To the wind's barbaric tune. Pasianos strutting Thru the creosotes and sage, Stabbing lazy lizards In a haughty hungry' rage. Chuckawalla's sunning On the bosom of the hill, Darting swift for cover With the blue dove's warning trill. Black-winged buzzards soaring O'er a sea of sage and sand, Searching for the victim Of a cursed thirsty land. And death with life a fighting With a grim and fierce desire, Seeking souls of puny men To feed the desert's fire. Ah, yes, my friend, the desert does speak When the red sun smoulders o'er Pinto Peak: And thee one may see in the blazing land Of painted hills and panting sand. Bob Hartunian admiring petroglyphs at McCoy Mountain. Photo by M.V. Birds of a feather... in Bajia de Kino Photo by M.V. |