Bacon & Eggs Page | 2

East of Yuma

On a midsummer's eve in August, east of Yuma Arizona, in the desert, on the sands of a long time, I watched the sun hide behind the Rockies. My thumb with no mileage left in it, tired, arrived with the city in my ears, hearing nothing else. The imaginary etch-a-sketch line of Day Blue and Night Black moved from East to West. The open desert, the open sky; the Milky Way, how very small I was in the great scheme of the galaxy, it too knowing smallness in the universe. Whispers, wisps of a voice, the spirit; the desert tells a story not unlike this one, that in between many more experiences, suffering many things, I will return. The curving arm holding out a bulb, a street corner in the city, a light outside, does not answer for the truth inside a darkened house. The light doesn't make life better, and the dark can be blinding, and the spirits of the desert tell me nothing real can be threatened, nothing unreal exists. I saw the sunrise turn into morning; unknowing, afraid, yet courageous, I started another day.