Palm Springs in September

On a Desert Road

A field - a farm, electric - its harvest
The wind that breathes the spirit of the land.
Turbines, tall and proud, slice the valley floor -
Shouldn't it bleed a little? Perhaps,
But parched veins prevent exsanguination.
The lifeblood of the land lies far beneath,
Seeping away to more fertile regions;
All the while these tall giants twist power.
America's exhausted bones curve up
And outward from the arid, rocky ground,
Tired witnesses to human yearnings -
Touched by the same desert air, unstirring,
Wrinkled mountains stand defiantly and
Glare at the desert sun. They thirst for life.