Desert Storm

A hot breeze blows through the open window
The night air rolling across my face.
There is a haze about everything,
As if I'm looking through a pane
Of dusty glass.

But the window is down,
The dust is all around.

A thin sheen covers everything,
The cars, the shops, the people,
Even the very air itself is blanketed
By a sheet of sand and grit.

Roll up the windows, he says.
I oblige, strangling the warm current,
Replacing it with the icy whine
Of the car's air conditioning.

Around the car the wind begins to pick up.
It whistles and moans as it pushes past us
Like a heard of wildebeest stampeding away
From some unseen threat.

And then the beast appears;
Rearing its massive head,
Bearing its yellow fangs,
It charges into us at full force.

At once, everything is gone
All we can see is the brown dust.
We are stuck.

We move forwards, hoping nothing lies in our way,
Not stopping, aware that the others are doing the same.

As swift as was its approach,
The beast hurtles past us.
In its wake, nothing but the ever present dust.

We drive on.
You can open the window now, if you like, he says.
I do. The warm air wraps itself around me,
Caressing me slowly to sleep.