Absent Minded

I fed the raven, I think. Could have been some other water starved creature that found my orange, rolled it with it’s foot or beak, pecked at it or clawed at it until it opened and delivered its watery cache. But I believe it was a raven, so sure were the blows that tore it in half. So complete was the excavation of the contents. I could see it, wings tucked neatly, concentrating all the force of its powerful neck muscles and large beak on opening and then pulling out the orange that stood out like a beacon amid the sage and tan colored everything.

In the desert there is nothing and everything. In the desert all is calm and all is wild. In the desert there are sounds and silence. In the desert I am alone and with company. It feeds me huge mounds of words, like plates topped with spaghetti falling off in long stringy sentences and meaty truths. It provides, through meager offerings of sand and gravel and thorny brush, big surprises in the form of bright red flowers atop spiny-armed cacti or the soft brushy leaves of the ageless trees and the tiny nest searched for in its branches. In the desert, expectations are naught and the attack of the unexpected is common. It sets you up to sit back and then grabs you with its blue skies painted with pink or white or yellow jet trails. One looks for the uncommon bird and find the common bird is looking, offering something you never knew you wanted.