Suburban Hurricane

There’s a spare, early cubist,
Spartan geometry here,
Almost a Cezanne—

Triangles of red-tiled roofs,
Rhomboids of stucco
Beyond the rectangular

Flat green yard, behind red bricks.
The moon is setting
In an Afghan pine.

Dawn is gathering gold strength
Opposite. Soon, desert sun
Will send the black cat to shade.

They call this town Hurricane.
Hardly any rain. Just wind.