Oh, the dry and flying sand that stings to fever cheek and brow!
Rain of Hell, O, Pedro mio! and the flame is on us now!
Spiral Phantoms on the desert writhe and wriggle slowly by,
Reaching earthward from the bosom from the black and yellow sky;
Oh, the spiral specters writhing where the yuccas beat and flail,
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!
I have seen it, Pedro mio!—seen it dimly through the wrack!—
Over there beyond the basin where the cloud is whirling black!
Streams of water, peaceful meadows and the shade of bending trees,
Stirring gently—ah, so gently! in the coolest summer breeze.