It is a landscape I don’t recognize.
If it wasn’t for the heat, I’d think
of winter, of when things die back
because the vegetation here
rises into spikes, reminding me
of leaf empty trees.
Even the red dirt of the cliffs
could be the Piedmont.
Except here, nothing moves
and the occasional
flower on a cactus is a surprise.
I read somewhere
that bats pollinate in desert climates.
I try to picture that
but the image is too dry, too
thin, until I see it,
the shape of the bats wing
in the unlined rock.