But each time she drove it, there were always subtle
Differences in how the light played over the bastion
Cliffs, banded white then black then rust red then
Mottled tan. The cliffs stood in a line--one--two--
Three, like soldiers on parade, the canyons between
Their buttes, the slight divide between the soliders'
Hands
She'd driven that road more than a hundred times
But each time she noticed something different
In the blur of sage and yucca and peyote that
Her car rushed by in a hissing roar. In early
Spring the cactus would bloom, followed by
The yellow sage, and then finally late in summer
The rubber rabbit bush would boldly thrust their
Yellow fronds into the hot afternoon air, swaying
Gently
She'd driven that road more than a hundred times
But each time she felt the same, empty longing
Of always coming and then going, of visiting
And then leaving, of loving, and fearing, and
Wondering. But that was the nature of their life
Together: not together. It was always left leaving
That longing, that loathing, that loving that desert
Driving
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