Small Town in the Desert

THE DESERT
When the stars above seem like they go on forever, I know I’m in the desert.
When I can wrap myself in the constellation and galaxies beyond, I know I’m in the desert.
When torrents of rain gush from the gray clouds and I stay outside to dance in the rain, I know I’m in the desert.
When I can predict the weather for weeks on end, just by glancing at the opal sky, I know I’m in the desert.
When it snows in winter, and is 102 degrees in the summer, in the same town, I know I’m in the desert.
When I see cactus and pine trees in the same two-hour drive, I know I’m in the desert.
When the air feels like my head in an oven on high, I know I’m in the desert.
When I can see for 97 miles, I know I’m in the desert.
When I touch the hard earth, and it crumbles, dry, in my hand, I know I’m in the desert.
When dry is just a state of what is, I know I’m in the desert.
When I really won’t have it any other way, I know I’m doomed for life to love the desert.


THE SMALL TOWN
When I see a tractor and a backhoe on a parade float, I know I’m in small town Arizona.
When I’m surrounded by really bad cowboy art, tie-dye, and homemade salsa I know I’m in small town Arizona.
When people actually use the phrase, “Howdy partner,” and are being sincere, I know I’m in small town Arizona.
When I can guarantee a cowboy hat in every store, I know I’m in small town Arizona.
When The Boot Races are a tradition for Fourth of July, I know I’m in small town Arizona.
When people grow cactus and 1953 Dodge pickups in their front yard, I know I’m in small town Arizona.
When the fashion varies from plaid, to Birkenstocks, to an occasional sundress, I know I’m in small town Arizona.
When mullets are the predominant species, I know I’m in small town Arizona.
When all is said and done, and the only thing I have left to do is laugh, because this is where I grew up, I laugh from my heart. I know that I have is good if not great.