By Jane Vogel
The map shows a trail, every turn.
One more leggy old cholla claims its own
silhouette against brush and Bermudagrass,
branches splitting and spreading
like open hands begging the sky.
Needles hide in blinding sunlight.
We stand at lookouts where no houses
or cars are visible
about a face in the rock, hope to see
spirits, but it is a newborn hackberry
flowing from a crack.
for permission from the sun
that stalks the slender spaces
for some dramatic
Could a hackberry tip them?
The cholla begs for answers.