Bicycling on The Loop
With my nine year-old
Her hair flying
The smell of creosote
After a desert rain.
The fragrance unlike
Any other on earth
Wafting into our nostrils
And deeper into our souls.
On our way west
Toward the Santa Cruz
A planned stop for water
To listen for the train
And to delight as it comes
Screaming by.
Contrasts. Beauty.
The giant saguaro
saluting our return.
—Patrick Cunningham
This article appears in Mar 12-18, 2015.