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
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.