The trees are in a frenzy
dancing with the wind.

It seems like it'd be hard to do
with an invisible dance partner,
but they seem to be enjoying themselves.

They're certainly putting on quite a show
for all of us watching.
But I don't think they're doing it for us.
Because really,
you don't need an audience
to dance.

Without a guard
the tower stands empty.
Cold stone piled high
atop once verdant hills
now grey with dust.

Silence now fills its stones
ruling over a land filled only with the inanimate.
Ruins crumbling and eroded away
by millennia of wind and rain,
chisels held by elements only
without a human hand in sight.

A calm ocean breeze
settles over a landlocked state

goosebumps rise
on bare arms
when brine drips with petrichor
down saguaro cactus flesh
and seagulls squawk overhead.

A static buildup
then the sky tears asunder
raining down relief.

Sometimes I sit beneath a tree
close my eyes
and listen.

Because every creak of a branch in the wind
and every leafy whisper
is a secret
from something deep within the wood
below the far sunk roots.

Stories are being told every day
unbeknownst to most.
And I live on stories,
devour them
like most absorb oxygen.

So I listen to the trees
and learn their tales
from yesterday and long ago.

You should try it sometime.
Very few people stop for a moment
and hear the stories waiting just outside their window.

A crown of vines sits atop my head,
their tendrils drape my face in greenery
and sway gently in the breeze.

I sit here on cool dark earth,
wriggling my toes through the loam
watching as the ants march by in rows.

Their chanting matches my heartbeat,
the thrum of their voices in their throats
and the rhythm of their feet
all morphing together
into a single song.

Eddies of light
trickle down from the sky
and pool there at your feet.

Your own personal puddle of moonlight
to do with what you will.

Will you take a sip
and taste the prickle of stardust on your tongue?
Or jump on in
and see where the portal takes you?

Will you share the mirror-sheen view
with others?
Or hoard the patch of beauty
for yourself?

Whatever you do,
remember to look up at the night sky first
and thank whatever entity graced you
​with your own personal puddle of moonlight.
You never know
when they might take it back,
and leave you once again
in the black.

The nightly chorus interrupted
by a deep thrumming bass.
It resonates in your bones
as it nears.

Then comes the staccato beat
against the windowpane
amidst the crash of brilliance
brightening the sky.

Each layer builds to a crescendo
rattling the night,
drowning out any thoughts
not focused on the performance outside.

And then
a slow softening
to pitter-patters
and quiet mumbling.

Even storms must slumber
after a show.

Boiling sun above,
dripping beams upon the earth.
Sweat runs down my back.

Reach into
the dancing
oasis.

The coolness
is a balm
to warm skin.

The ripples thrum
to heartbeats
never felt.