Anza Borrego in March

Ocotillo flames up
toward a blue canopy
within the faint range
of orange blossoms
in the mild but prickly air.
Ochre and seer, the desert
awaits a promised rain.
Filaments snap; lost and drunk
bees are ready to drop.
Like the thirsty desert
we too long for a swift
wash of liquid colors,
and dream of water
with the big horn sheep
ghostly under a purple sunset.
All of us bask in the thirst
of a floral hum
an amber smoldering.

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