a symphony of reduced expectations  you could call it.  And in another way, the edge of survival has a quiet symmetry to it.  Comes from the piecing together of things both worthless and precious.  Lives in darkness even on nights of lavish moonlight.  Slinks from the edges of the shadows.  Has not a face about it, but eyes that watch for the moment.  Resembles the humility of flowers that bloom for a day, animals that seek invisibility, water that runs into the sand without a trace.  To the stranger, nothing has happened in the desert and nothing ever will.  To the native, a pageant of fragments make a life.