Does the desert criticize the rain when it comes, torrential destruction transforming slow quiet life into rapid shouts of mortality?

Does the ground grumble and protest that it must shift to allow the water to flow between the molecules of its existence? 

Does the desert wish that the sky remembered to shower it with vitality more frequently, so that it did not have to accept monsoons instead of mist?

The ancient red baked rocks, layered with lake bed lichen from eons past, now sit molten in the sun, and must be grateful to be drowned, if only to remember what it felt like to live under water. 

The desert does not blame the sky for the weather, it accepts with open pores the loving benediction, and carefully stores the chaos until it quells into vitality yet again, to be rationed until the next flood replenishes destruction.