The sun sets over
Cactus ribs sharp with shadow
Arms lifted in praise.
The sky is smeared
With gleams of gold and russet;
God’s spilled paint palette.
The earth is rust-red,
As though Abel’s blood cries out.
It runs with the rain.
Round nubs of mountain,
Spines straining under silty skin,
Every stone a cell.
If we are silent, the rocks
In the desert will cry out.
Inklings Literary Magazine 