Dust is the feeling dry

Dust is the feeling dry
As desert winds pass crost our city.
Clouds loom high and still an easy 90.
The Mojave breathes:
In
Out
Off, scratching the concrete scab
Healing the sore,
Green skin will grow again it warns.

Owen died to populate this place
But nature like its grey-trunked beast remembers;
Time refreshes the land.
Despite: deserts will be deserted.
Alone and empty, void.