I do not know the desert, yet

the stories of rock, hot sand, and cacti

burn in my mind.

I’ve seen swiping photos of

the majesty that arises

early morning above the dunes:

shades of purple and pink

the Midwest simply isn’t acquainted to.

I wonder how my car would look:

snow tires traveling through dust

kicked up by her wheels.

I can imagine the crunch

rumble

of a turn off the main road;

the slow stop as I settle the brake

and pull a lawn chair out with me.

A creak and a snap

opening vinyl and metal to sit

sinking into an awe I’ve only seen

in rolling credits

of a film.