Sara Flowers
Listen to the song, hear the
desert wind
As it sings gently, gently across
the openness
Of the Searles Valley.
From our road at Sierra mountain
edge
We hear the wind, singing along
with the
Whistle and rumble freight trains
through
The desert night, singing to the
high riding moon
Across creosote and saltbush
Across the sands and aged rock.
Hear the wind gleefully dancing
At the crest of Walker’s Pass,
ready to leave
The mountains and dive, swirling
round and round
Finally to swoop down to the
valley floor to visit
The little lonely cabins and
tumbled buildings of
Old desert Garlock. It plays with
The old man in his bottle house,
built of years
From left behinds, glass blue and
purple from desert sun,
And the people in the little board
cabin where it
Joins its song with the notes an
old piano echoing
Through the desert night.
Now it blusters and romps among
the rabbits,
Coyotes, sidewinders and horned
toads,
Frolics among the ancient creosote
circles,
Gathering up tomorrow’s song
And tomorrow’s dance of distance
and of time
So old that they are known only to
the wind,
The rocks and the sand. And then
moves on across
Dry lake beds and canyons to
nestle happily
Into the Panamint mountains. It plays gently
With the old pines, the rocks and
little springs
The high peaks and the few
remnants of silver camps
And charcoal kilns left from the
silver mining days.
Finally, quietly, humming to
itself, the wind decides
To settle into its rest, waiting
for the dawn