Tucson

I don't understand
living in the shadow of a mountain,
and this city
is in a valley, surrounded
by many mountains.

They are always there,
within reach,
yet their scraggly slopes are
more bare of humankind
than of greenery.

How can this be,
that a million people
can live in a dusty, dry valley
without enough water,
without enough shade,
and not flee to the hills that stand,
stalwart beacons of immutable time,
ringing the hazy horizon?

Every moment,
outside on the street
and inside at my window,
I think of the mountains, and I long
to go to them--
although the impassive ancients do not call for me,
I and the valley crumble into dry dust.