These old boots are good at desert sand, grit sound-scuffs against wood under my languid stroll from screen door to rocking chair. The shade overhead does nothing to keep out heat, just pulls the breeze under its eaves, stirring a heady musk of desert blooms and sage, gentle whirlwind casting hanging chimes like dice, touching my face with its story. The sky is rose-gold, navy, colors swept across the backdrop of universe, some painterly whim, and cicada dance their song in the gloaming half-light.
A coyote somewhere.
Tobacco burns hot, here.
Nothing but silent words and sweat glowing on my skin.