East of Luna Mesa

			1.

August in the Mojave Desert
110 yesterday
112 today.

The sun begins to drop behind the dark western mountains.
I walk out.
Alone.

Creosote
Joshua Trees
and because the landfill is a mile away,
human debris.

Jacob Rodriguez of Room 27 at Pedley School,
	prints his message carefully
	on the postcard.  There is a pineapple stamp
		on one corner.

His teacher shows Jacob Rodriguez
	how to punch a hole in the bottom of the card.
	They inflate a
		Purple balloon
		with helium.
		You push the end of the balloon
			through the hole.  You have to wait

till

all the kids are ready, then you go out.

Jacob Rodriguez lets GO
	of his balloon.
	Purple rising
	and green, which is Tanika’s
	and red, which is Kimberley’s
	Who knows what might happen!

Sunset cools to blue.  Heat lightning strafes the sky over the Marine Base.  I pick up the postcard.  “If you find this, please tell me who you are and where you found it.  Your friend, Jacob Rodriguez.”


			2.

The driver wears a battered helmet and goggles.
My gut goes tight.  I walk alone on these dirt roads.

The driver waves, pulls off helmet and goggles.  “It’s just me,” she says.  “I know how it is being a woman fooling around out here alone.”

	She climbs off the machine.
	We sit on the trunk of a downed Joshua.

	“I know you,” she says.  “Seen you at a couple meetings
		in town.”
		“You’re the one,” I say, “told us you
nearly wiped out 29 Palms.”

	Her eyes sparkle.  She grins.  “Want to hear the whole story?
		“I was about 22,
		decided to kill myself over some fool, ‘course
			I was drinking.”

		“I headed out 62 and I got my old truck
			going about 90.  I drove straight
			 into one of them
			telephone poles that’s maybe ten feet
				off the frickin’ road.  The car bounced off,
				went across a couple a berms.

		“The cops told me I’d knocked out
			all the lights
			in 29 Palms.  All it did was 
				break my nose.  A guy
				got me out of the car
				and I sat on the berm
					and I cussed
					out
					God.  See,
				I was still alive.”


			3.

We go up
	over talus and basalt boulders.
	My son 
	offers a hand.

	One high step.
	We sit on a terrace.  The blood-orange sun has just dropped
		behind the Pintos.  The rock beneath us
			is warm.

“What I like about the silence
	out here, “ my son says, “is how
	you can hear a bird go by.”
	He stretches out his long hand,
		palm down
		and flutters his fingers.
			“Whirrrrrrrrrrrrr…”