I push my bicycle up to the water tower,
the moshav’s heart, within its ribcage of barbed wire.
I walk the circular perimeter fence.
Stretching to the southern horizon like a drum of animal hide,
the yellow-brown Negev,
stone-studded and scarred with the memories of water,
its hills a richer brown,
fluted with dark crevices as though wind-sculpted from shadows.
I like the desert mornings
when the creatures are about their business,
the wind is still a rumour
and the sun is more merciful
than the eyes of falcons on the wing.
To the east, the mountains of Jordan
seem always veiled with haze,
physically recognising a troubled border.
Looking north to the moshav,
the green fields are life’s bold signature
on the parchment of the desert.
listening to music that mirrors the sense of place
in a song: “All of This and Nothing.”