Dancing figures swirl above the sands as the moon winks her silvery eye among the doting clouds. The night is full of Mayan magic. A figure of sparkling circles is propped against a Joshua tree, savoring the enticement of his prickly spines.
She remembers leaving footprints on the bank after trembling in the rock spring, basking in shafts of sunlight all summer long, watching that man with the hungry eyes. He was looking for gold, didn’t consider her offering more than Mexican hospitality.
Family outcast, Esmeralda is the queen of these badlands where only stick cattle grow.
Blowing gusts from America carry songs and messages to her from that Promised Land.
She sleeps on a tor, atop the treasures the pale man sacrificed his family to search for.
The south wind whispers “It’s Mariah”; the two swirl, lovers in time now. No man understands the comfort which the wasteland offers those that linger in her recesses, or why a tornado visited Kansas on the day that Judy Garland died.
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