On the edge of the Namib

Days of dust.
Dry days.
A cloud, and a smile.
Cattle. Counting the ribs as a countdown to death.
Crowding waterpoints.
An endless valley to search for good grasses.
A valley reminding every cow
It should have been born a goat or an oryx or a springbok.
Like a rabbit from a hat
Springbok pull greenness from dry grass that cattle pass.
And, then the springbok are gone.
Scrambling under fences
Away from cattle and goats.
Secreting to camps of pale green
Hidden where farmers don’t go.
The scent of rain, and springbok herds move.
Green grass will greet them.
Cattle watch behind fences as the horizon
Steals the clouds.
Dry days.
Good years, every so often.
A reason to stay.
A reason to push through droughts.
Years for growth and building
While there is money.
And then, without grass
The money goes away.
Survival.
Dry days.
Rocks make feet stronger
But shoes wear out faster.
Droughts make good neighbors
Who wait for rain together.
Bad years build stamina, character
And every drink of water tastes sweeter.
Miles from electricity
The stars tell bedtime stories.
The Namib makes men strong and smart
And makes smiles rare.
Lonely valleys build strong towns.
No churches but hotels
With big lawns and shade trees
And Saturday night dances.
Dry days.
Life on the edge.
Together.

L. Powell, in Helmeringhausen