This place

Early morning sun, and  drenched already

in the desert, just another day.

That arid, burning, smoky weather,

the barren hills and rivers of clay.

A vulture above, and one little feather

that drifts to the ground. Steady, steady.

Life blooms even in the harshest waste

where the sun beats down in heated waves.

The hands of the people are rugged and weathered

from climbing the rocks to explore the caves.

And the horses and cows can be seen tethered

in barns in their rows that are evenly spaced.

The dust picks up in the wind with the sands

across fields of bone-dry golden grass.

Rattling ahead a snake sits coiled

daring any who come to try and pass.

There are acres of land that sit unspoiled

completely devoid of human hands.

This place that burns upon the loam

I am proud to call it my home.

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