Never kick a fresh turd on a hot day.
One person’s picture postcard is someone else’s normal. This was the landscape whose every face we knew: giant saguaro cacti, coyotes, mountains, the wicked sun reflecting off bare gravel.
“Where are the people?” The little prince finally resumed the conversation. “It’s a little lonely in the desert…” “It’s also lonely with people,” said the snake.
I lived in a little stuccoed house in a neighborhood of barking dogs and front-yard shrines to the Virgin of Guadalupe.
What ideal, immutable Platonic cloud could equal the beauty and perfection of any ordinary everyday cloud floating over, say, Tuba City, Arizona, on a hot day in June?
Tucson had opened my eyes to the world and given me… a taste for the sensory extravagance of red hot chiles and five-alarm sunsets.
You know that Arizona is going to really be understood and get somewhere some day.
Some say that true love is a mirage; seek it anyway, for all else is surely desert.
What makes the desert beautiful… is that somewhere it hides a well…
I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams…