Every blade of grass comes armed with some spear, barb or spike
And the soil is only a thin blanket covering a bed of limestone
Where the dry winds and the burning heat
Bake the fields like bread in an oven
Roadrunners dart among the cedar trees searching for snakes
While scorpions patrol the dust vigilantly with their tales held high
The clouds rumble and complain as they float through the sky
As if some angry god refused to shed a tear for the parched earth beneath
Yet through the burning summer life continues to persevere
Birds sing their songs while flies and bees buzz through the air
The deer seek out the few remaining pools in the dried creek bed
And for all its arid heat there is a beauty that draws me back home
Through most of the year I dwell where the soil is dark and deep
Where the rains fall and the corn grows tall
And the land is green and the grass is soft
But this dusty land is in my blood and draws me back as one of its own

Neil White, 2013