BHS Inkwell 2017-2018

Alistair Bushey

It hasn’t rained in days. The golden grains drift in puffs From the sand dunes The Desolate Sentinel by Erin Hansbrough

And I wait, staring up at the sky, For a wisp of cloud or a flying beast To bring me word of water. Even the cacti, once red, once green, Are turning dry, brittle, dying in the desert heat And when they fall, Billowing great clouds of dust, There will be no hope Or cool, dark shade left. And I could escape, Fly away to the ocean and never return, But this is my home And I won’t ever desert The wide open sky and warm, sleepy stones. Perhaps the sun glares too bright now, Or the heat bears down like burning sagebrush, But I will always love this yellow, arid land And maybe it will rain tomorrow.

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