How is the Desert?

A couple years ago I was working a botany job in the Mojave Desert, and a friend messaged me, “How is the desert?,” shortly after a rare and potent rainstorm swept through the area.  This was my answer:

How is the desert?

The desert is singing the song of 1,000 clacks of cricket legs shimmying on the hidden curves of creosote branches.

The desert is like an overzealous lover, sunkissing me through the burning day despite my attempts to cover my skin from head to toe, until I am spent and tired and fall into her lengthening evening shade.

The desert is like the grand ballroom of infinite valleys where wind spirits come to dance.  The desert is a testament to the eminence of water, encased like jewels within the exoskeletons of ants, running in millions through collector’s highways, water gathering water.

The desert is a web of roots, creosote tendrils waiting for rain, older than I can imagine, and I am here skidding the surface of sand.  The desert is newness, moths emerging from cocoons and drying their wings in the brazenly hot breezes.

And the desert is the space to remember that right now is forever,   where was and before and what is in store sink past the lines in the horizon.

The desert is a playground for lightning and thunder, clouds rushing in for the evening show of heat rising. And the smell of the rain comes before the rain, the wet creosote breezes fill the air five full breaths before the thick drops of rain run sideways pelting my clothes to my skin.

The desert is a sauna, 108 degrees when I get on my knees to see the wiry remains of the plants that emerged from the last big rain. The desert is rapidly still and slowly frenetic, like ants on granite and lizards that dart into holes dark and deep and cold and out of reach, the suns heat kissing me always kissing me even through the bottom of my boots.

The sun is everything here, the desert is her temple of light. Even for the creatures of the night.