The “g” is silent is Saguaro, and no coyotes

wear bandanas around their necks. Most

of the year, runners and hikers tread linear

paths called washes, though only a few

times a year, maybe even just for hours,

do these surface water. Days after days

into days yield cloudless, so rare rains

abstract the sky into a Rothko canvas,

dark greys overlapping patches of blue

and white, and after—creosote scents

the air, a musky mix of camphor plus

methanol oiling from its leaves. Black

lights held by suburban hunters illuminate

backyard scorpions while ocotillo purple

in May, all while dust levitates, swirling

lost lariats atop the chapparals lining

the highway.