I grew up in a desert. Only a handful of God’s creatures can survive there. Man is one of them.
My granddaddy’s people moved to the desert long ago when it was wild and still up for grabs. Lots of them died—Indians, starvation, cholera. These were buried in shallow graves, a lone branch or bit of volcanic stone to mark that they ever were. Somehow they managed to make their patch of desert blossom like the cactus rose. They ran off the Indians, built towns, schools, and churches, dug irrigation ditches, planted fruit trees, and had babies. All they wanted in the world was some land, a little freedom, and something to leave their posterity.
Today the desert is a much different place. There are all sorts of new creatures there the old-timers could never imagine: snowbirds, tree-huggers, hippies, gays, preppers, separatists, and Indians (dot, not feather).