Tide Clock in the Desert

At noon the dunes ring like bronze bowls, wind-struck, their rims bright with heat. A lizard writes one silver signature, then the sun lifts it, unread.

I walk where an inland sea once breathed, salt crust whitening the ankles of sage. Beneath each step, shells remember water, small ears listening for a vanished tide.

Cloud shadows drift like ships without anchors, darkening miles in a single soft stroke. Far off, a fence hums with trapped light, wire strings tuned to the key of dust.

By evening the horizon cools to indigo, and stars come early, patient as wells. Night pours its black glass over the basin; in it, old waves rise and break in silence.