waits under an ominously dark ceiling that moves from the mountains across the valley.  The wind has picked up.  The salt cedars that normally block off all view of the neighbors, now wave like skeletons bleached of their flesh as the wind hits their naked branches.  The ceiling changes, as if the artist can’t quite decide the color or shading.  And then the rain hits.  Drops coming in wind pushed waves that are sucked up by the land.  The airborne birds battle wind currents that hurl them mercilessly back and forth, their outstretched wings are part of the artist’s sense of humor.

As suddenly as it started, the wind drops to a breeze, the rain stops, the ceiling is still changing.  The desert waits.