High desert winds have lost their bite.
Trees nuzzled now by bone-dry air
stretch sharp-tipped branches to the sky
as lizards stir from prickly lair.
The meadow’s softened by fresh growth.
Bluebonnets thrive, blue lupine too.
Green nubbly grass ungrazed as yet
is shimmering with drops of dew.
A creek newborn from winter-melt
side-winds its way to yonder lake
through blue-grey brush, o’er scattered rocks,
by wizened trees whose torsos shake.
The sky, smudged pink by rising sun,
soon fills with puffed up scudding clouds
gilt-edged at first then pearly-white,
duets pursued by gath’ring crowds.
For me, Nevada born and bred,
this desert sings a siren’s song
in Spring when I do miss her most.
“Come home, my son, where you belong.”
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