ten scenes; three – the plain

nothing
but mesquite shrubs
for miles
thorns
three inches long
the occasional tuft of grass
like razor wire
whipping
in the hot breeze

dust devils spin
across the cracked dirt
demons at play
in the sullen sun
the shadow
of circling hawks
the only break
from the pummeling
rays of light

a lone flower
forces it’s way
through the hardscrabble
deep roots
searching
for moisture
in the depths
survival
in the barren nothingness

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