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Dust Devils

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Bicycling on The Loop

With my nine year-old

Her hair flying

The smell of creosote

After a desert rain.

The fragrance unlike

Any other on earth

Wafting into our nostrils

And deeper into our souls.

On our way west

Toward the Santa Cruz

A planned stop for water

To listen for the train

And to delight as it comes

Screaming by.

Contrasts.  Beauty.

The giant saguaro

saluting our return.

—Patrick Cunningham

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