No honor is lost
in accepting defeat.
What kind of person
endures such misery,
then plans to return a few days later?
Everyone has something that grounds them:
a rocker on the front porch,
a window overlooking the garden,
a shelf of Kerouac and Hemingway.
His solace is the inner gorge.
Breaking camp before dawn,
he trots to the trailhead.
His feet are familiar with this stretch of trail,
so there is freedom for his mind to wander.
He reflects on the wonder of life,
on the challenge ahead, on
the pinnacles he’s climbed.
The thump thump thump of his feet
on the dry, rocky creek bed
adds a steady drumbeat to his existence.
Enclosed by limestone cliffs,
far above, greenery clumps
beneath invisible dripping springs—
redbuds cloaked in purple,
fallen petals swirl on a puddle.
On the canyon floor,
a clear trickle sometimes appears,
barely wide as his boot. He stops to sip,
a vampire at Mother Earth’s blood.
Originating in the sun-warmed stone,
an ancient, powerful pulse surrounds him.
Boulders emanate heat like an oven door opening.
As fatigue sets in, he notices a presence, realizes
this landscape is not meant for frail humans.
An unearthly place. Mars perhaps—
no, Mercury—yes, Mercury!
A mercurial landscape, too close to the sun.
So close that brother Sol hears his moans,
must be laughing at his groans,
tormenting further with another heated pulse.
His feet ache like never before.
Small knives stab heels and arches with each step.
He spits and swears.
He scrambles around school-bus boulders,
slips on loose talus, tortured
by effort and thorny brush.
Living up to its name, catclaw punctures and grabs,
tearing bits of flesh from sensitive shins.
He cries out reflexively, his voice,
an inhuman scream in an alien landscape,
returns as an echo—the canyon’s laughter
gleeful and mocking.
His pace now that of a slug,
he acknowledges—
he has had enough.
Frail in comparison
to this impenetrable canyon, he turns back.
With a sigh, he says a prayer of appreciation
to the desert goddess
and begins the long march home.
In accepting defeat, he feels no lost honor,
only quiet resignation, gratitude,
and anticipation— rest, a shower,
a hot meal at the kitchen table
while imagining his next adventure.
© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 307/365.
Desert Dweller 