Of Heat and Flies

Of Heat and Flies
 

 The wind blows from the south
 a hot whisper across the ground
 whisking fine red dust from gibber stones,
 raking sand into a desert dance of whorls
 across the sun, blinding its yellow eye
 with dark orange clouds. Whistling  
 and whining to a scream it erodes plains
 exposes bedrock in a violent hurtle
 towards town to paint houses and cars
 reddish sepia. As the storm flies by
 fine centrifugal dust particles 
 seep through windows, slide beneath doors
 and settle sinuously among 
 the secrets of beds and sheets.
 In the gale, clothes flap helpless
 on lines of lives rendered opaque 
 by a monochrome moment of madness.
 

 It passes. All is still.
 

 Dogs shake sand from their fur 
 and begin to lick.