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This place
Early morning sun, and drenched already
in the desert, just another day.
That arid, burning, smoky weather,
the barren hills and rivers of clay.
A vulture above, and one little feather
that drifts to the ground. Steady, steady.
Life blooms even in the harshest waste
where the sun beats down in heated waves.
The hands of the people are rugged and weathered
from climbing the rocks to explore the caves.
And the horses and cows can be seen tethered
in barns in their rows that are evenly spaced.
The dust picks up in the wind with the sands
across fields of bone-dry golden grass.
Rattling ahead a snake sits coiled
daring any who come to try and pass.
There are acres of land that sit unspoiled
completely devoid of human hands.
This place that burns upon the loam
I am proud to call it my home.
