El Paso’s rolling brownouts
have nothing to do with a dearth
of energy, but rather its excess.
This town nestled in the triangle
between desert, mountains,
and lush Rio Grande is plagued
by roiling winds in early Spring
after months of drought.

Choking ocher colored clouds
sweep across the loosened desert sand,
grinding it smooth and lifting it high
in finely woven, smothering sheets.
They are driven through tiny
crevices, every minuscule crack
an opening for these fine grains
coating all within our former home
in an orange, faintly greasy sheen.

Each spring, while family
in Indiana enjoyed lush green
and the near endless
falling sweetness of rain,
we would instead receive
the persistent dust,
a constant grit in every crease and fold.
Tiny piles of desert soil
throughout our home
reminded me of a century before,
the dust bowls that chased
generations back to verdant homelands.

The billowing waves crested
mountain peaks and settled, stilled, between them,
suspended in the quieted air and momentarily fired
by evening’s setting light,
creating momentary beauty
from a distance
from what in its midst
would kill.