The Beckoning

You do not wear a watch
or carry a cell phone,
but when an owl's tongue
peals midday
from a Joshua tree,
you summon me
to the sound.

Badgered out of sleep
by glare, the bird
bids us
to listen and look --
even pray.

The day breathes
cooler than normal;
and two species of rose
are in full bloom
but housed in the same bush.

Yellow and red
intermingle. Their ruling
differences seem obscure
when the passion
to thrive in this desert field
overshadows.

You ask
if I understand why
we were drawn here
by a bird's plaintive call.
And I nod yes
staring at the petals, their colors
encrypted with our own.