BPR 53 | 2026
The wind transforms the chimes’ tinkle
reminiscent of rain into a full-score production
for timpani, the rhythm of the chiming
now sudden, vigorous, and unpredictable.
Can it even be called a sirocco, this storm
driving sand and debris miles away?
Palm Desert is no Sahara, and Europe
will not look on in disgust as the alien sand
infiltrates its world. The Royal Poinciana
betrays the fact the Spaniards have been here,
the tree they planted to honor their Kings
and Queens, a marker of their greed, their need
for more and more territory and resources.
The desert cares nothing for the frivolous desires
of Spain, refuses colonization. You either live
by the desert’s rules or you perish
like the Conquistadores did. The wind orchestrates
the chimes at a slower tempo now. The wind
whispers through the palms and carefully shimmers
the pool’s moonlight reflections. What exactly
does one do here? This. You sit with the desert,
meaning you sit with yourself. Siroccos,
Conquistadores, Kings and Queens, all animated
to remind you what you are and what you are not.