On Saturday a late snow
frosted the desert. By mid-morning,
roof melt rained in torrents overhead.
Out under the sun, longed-for rivers rushed
down the driveway into storm sewers,
while nearby the shallow roots of prickly pear
and saguaro, ocotillo and cholla must have
slurped what they could before the sun stole
the rest. Palo Verde limbs snapped under
the foreign weight of slush snow.
By noon, landscapers were grinding
the “green stick” to pulp.

We clean up. Make neat. Choose order.
Nature deals with chaos on her own.
For days the mountaintops horded the
snow, a spring gift winter had refused to give.
In the canyon, birds and insects gathered at
tiny glistening pools, while beyond our eyes,
wouldn’t mountain lions have lapped at ice
before it evaporated into blue?

Dawn Hogue is a Wisconsin writer and former English teacher. Her poetry has appeared in various anthologies and literary journals including Through This Door, Stoneboat Literary Journal, and Inscape Magazine. Her collection Painting South Pier was inspired by Sheboygan’s South Pier neighborhood through the four seasons. Find her at dawnhogue.com.