The desert is a dusty place
Of cactus, grit, and glare,
Which puts a scowl upon the face
Of those who wander there.
The Ciénega is meant to be
An oasis, cool and wet,
A miracle for all to see—
Or so I’m told, and yet:
The cottonwoods are rather nice,
The water’s mostly there;
It isn’t quite a paradise,
But then, what is, elsewhere?
I’ve got some mud upon my shoe,
My water bottle’s warm,
But since I’ve nothing else to do,
It has a certain charm.
The experts sit in air-cooled rooms To track the water table, While down below, the willow blooms As well as it is able. We’ve mapped the flow and fenced it in With signs to keep us right; We love the "Wild," but think it sin If it keeps us up at night. It ran before the asphalt came, It’s older than the street; We give the thing a Spanish name And find it rather neat. It serves to show that, now and then, Despite our best-laid schemes, The world ignores the plans of men To follow its own streams. It’s grand to see a thing survive Our progress and our pride, But it’s a long, hot, dusty drive— Let’s go back inside.
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