Desert Wind by Cara Feral

There is no romance in this land
just tiny elf owlets begging in desperate chorus
from their hollowed saguaro 
for their mother’s catch
and the ferocious beating of insect wings
against the searing air like the dying gasp
of an old plodding bass drum
Everything is poisonous or stings or pricks or bites
Behind the chaparral bush and rare cacti bloom
the coiled rattler’s warning thrum
With the soul of a poet and
the soles of a dead man hiking
I’ll walk 700 miles through this place
just to hold his hand
Out here it's not what we acquire
but how shit gets moved around

About the Poet:

Cara Feral is from the high plains of Laramie, Wyoming. She earned a physics degree in Kutztown University. She later dropped out of a full ride scholarship to study astrophysics at Louisiana State University to go hike the Appalachian Trail.Since then she has “thru” hiked The Appalachian Trail two times, the 2600 mile long Pacific Crest Trail and the 3300 mile long Continental Divide Trail. Eventually she wants to be the first trans woman to complete the quadruple crown by hiking the 4600 mile North Country Trail. These days she quarantines inside the cozy confines of her apartment with her cat and boyfriend in Eugene, Oregon.