Footfalls sound in the desert at night,
trampling fireweed defying droughty ground,
a hushed motion noted only by eremites
and the disturbed taluses or femurs
of anonymous wretches whelmed by humus.
We creep and trod amid a tombal quiet
past beetles gnawing brier spikelets
and scampering geckos, ever shoreward;
my dromedary, often laconic,
forages for rootlets with a dour expression
blending mild contempt with resignation.
An overhead starburst brightens the arid trail,
guiding random passels traipsing
clayey loam and marl through ghoulish hours
in the quest to greet the littoral by dawn.
Mongers of our hardy lifeway reverence
that overnight interval when even
breathing is muted by telluric consensus,
senses hone, and fragrant resins scent the night.