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.
Coasting downhill,
listening to music that mirrors the sense of
place
in
a song: “All of This and Nothing.”
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