When I close my eyes to go to sleep, I can feel the wind and sand blowing in my face like a day spent on a boat or in the waves, when your body has left the water, but your mind hasn’t, even in your dreams.
I can’t open my eyes until I make them tear as the sand grains caught between my eyelid and eye abrade the tissue. I run my hands over my 40 grit hair, dig the grains out of my ear, and rub the sand off my eyebrows.
The dune tendril drifts across the road forming a tapering spine. The car slips over and through the shorter end of the road drift.
A sheet of braided sand hugging the dune falls horizontally like a roaring waterfall turned on its side.
The migrating sand erases my tracks and memory.
Heroic brittle brushes with bright yellow flowers weather the granular assault.
Blowing sand races off the edges of dunes in plumes that persist like the spokes of a spinning wheel.
The sinking sun peeks out from behind a cloud turning the dunes into a desert quilt of shadow and light.
A solitary bush clings tenaciously to the side of a mountain of sand.
A ridge line dips and crests over piles and mountains of sands disappearing into the horizon.
A bush kowtows in humility to the power of the wind and sand.
A silhouetted figure stands on a far peak fading into the dune.