I go for an early morning walk today in the desert. It's just past 6 am as I head out of the neighborhood, along the old train track bed just the other side of the fence where I’ve been staying in my RV. It draws me south, towards the border. I'm always drawn south, like a gravitational pull. "South" has always stood for important things to me: Mexico, warmth, culture, satisfaction.

The sun has yet to clear the mountains to the east. The small spaces are still dark. No one seems alive as I glance at homes I pass by. "They don't know what they're missing," I think to myself, they need to get out of those houses and live. 

It's a peaceful, quiet time. Early mornings are always crisp and refreshing, like clean sheets on a bed.  Like the first sip of an ice cold bottle of beer.  

Though most humans have yet to stir, mother nature has been up for some time now and she's talking to me. Off in the distance I hear a low rumbling. There's been some rain and thunder and lightning. I say “some” as it's rarely ever enough. The locals call it "monsoon" season. I don't know why, monsoons are in Asia, and they're very wet and windy also. Not so here. 

I have a fondness for thunder and lightning. It's such a wondrous exhibition of nature. I can't imagine anything as welcome as moisture in this harsh desert. As I deliberate, I feel an occasional drop of water on my head. There's a feeling of moisture in the air, a scent of tropical likeness in my nose.

The light of the sun still low over there in the sky gives a soft glow on my surroundings. To the west, last night's moon gazes at me from the edge of a hill. As I walk, there's a constant demonstration around me. Grasshoppers jump away from me by the scores. Quail alarm me occasionally, as I do them, as they burst out of the bushes suddenly, really only a blur. Knats fly everywhere. A cactus wren calls, invisible from deep within a shrub. Cicadas buzz on-then-off, from trees somewhere in the dizz-tance. Doves fly away, their wings squeaking.

The mesquite trees are so green and lush now. Their leaves almost glow in contrast to their dark branches. The red and yellow blossoms are dainty, beautiful, reminding me of some exotic bird.  The ocotillo reach up high, high above me, their stalks covered with small green leaves. Their squiggley shape against the sky remind me of capillaries. As I look down again to see where I step, purple morning glories are numerous and add a gentler, garden-like atmosphere.

I must watch where I walk. I almost stepped on a sleeping, coiled rattlesnake a couple weeks back. It was a bit unnerving. Fortunately it was like today - still in the cool of the morning and Mr. Rattler wasn't moving too swiftly yet. He seemed to stare, that's all. Perhaps he knew I wasn't there to harm him.

This time I stop and watch a tarantula rambling to nowhere in particular, on the lookout for a female to mate with probably. The horn of a train is just audible off to the south--must be a Mexican train, I surmise. I reflect on what it must have been like when there was no border. I wish I had been there.

As I proceed farther away from the edge of town, everywhere are remnants of so-called illegals: plastic water jugs, backpacks, someone's underpants. As I walk over a culvert I hope I'm not alarming some Mexicans that may be sleeping down inside. I imagine some of them must be a little edgy.

I discover a pile of old cans and broken bottles, so I poke around looking for pieces of purple glass or some other interesting artifact. Instead I find a fairly old Cheez Whiz bottle complete with lid, and some mysterious dark lumps inside. Not a keeper. I leave it and stand up again and see the sun has now peeked over the edge of the horizon, and realize I'm suddenly warmer. Life is good.