The sky is a gradient of tangerine and auburn. Some prickly pear juice is mixed in with broad strokes too. The sun’s sinking eye backlights a lupine form hunched along a lone ridge. Ubi Sunt settles, slowly, carefully into the encroaching twilight. She moves as if she has aching bones and joints—as if she has a skeleton. She doesn’t, but the desert she calls home does.
A saguaro carcass stretches before her dusty paws. Its long spines are barren of its once vibrant green shell. Now it’s long dried and bleached white, and so is the esk that has folded herself in front of it. Her palo verde isn’t, curren