The four windows of the one-room shack
framed four mountains: Sheephole, Joshua Tree,
San Gorgonio (still snow-crested in April),
and eastward, a hill of white sand that turned pink at sunset.
The man and the girl lay half nude on the bed,
staring out the open door. In the silence,
the wind hummed in the greasewood bushes
and the man was humming softly a hymn tune
she remembered from childhood:
“ ‘Where every prospect pleases,’ ” she said,
“I used to think prospect was some kind of candy.”
A motorbike engine buzzed not far off and then stopped.
They were both half asleep
when an unexpected footfall made him start up.
A stranger, heavyset, unsmiling, stood in the doorway.
The man, barefoot, went quickly to the door.
“Are you looking for the Browns?
It’s two cabins down the crossroad.”
The stranger said nothing but stared hard at the girl.
“I won’t ask you in,” said the man.
“My wife is not feeling well.”
“She looks to me like she feels pretty good,” said the stranger.
Her husband reached in the camp icebox at the door
and took out a Coke, opened it, and handed it to the other man.
In the desert you don’t argue with thirst.
The stranger took it, shook it, holding his thumb over the hole.
He was still looking at the woman.
He released his thumb and the foam spewed out onto the doorsill.
“The wetter the better,” he said.
The two of them watched in silence as he turned and walked
down the sand road toward his bike.
“Thank you for keeping your temper,” she said.
“I had to. He had a gun in his pocket.”
“I just thought of the next line,” she said.
They laughed then, and sang softly together
the old missionary hymn:
“ ‘Where every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.’ ”