Egg yolk spilled across the sky three minutes earlier this morning, pooling over metallic blue in patches. As I trudge forward, sand screws up to my knees during long gusts to remind me that even in the desert I am not alone in waking. This is not a spiritual quest; this is not a nightmare, for that implies brevity. This is a purposeful challenge to that slobbering, scrap-iron pig, Death.
Wilted cacti already duplicate in periphery and my hands tremble over my pack’s straps. I will not spend energy thinking on this. I may survive. And I may die. But this fight is going to end with cold fists meeting dry metal.