sandstorm . . .
the scent of rain
from somewhere

a week of rain . . .
into the stranger’s yawn
a train whistle

supper cooking —
a wind with storm in it
comes through the wheat

dusty mullions —
early twilight creeping
from living room corners

the wave
curls on and on
Indian summer

boarded-up drugstore —
grass lengthens
between concrete cracks

desert chill
the ocotillo's long reach
to the stars

bread rising . . .
a crumb
in an old book

lunar eclipse
I remember my last
menses

moonlight
crossing the tide flats
in someone’s footprints