There are things I know, I’ve
learned, from the miles I’ve covered. I
know that the dust in the air today comes flying across barren plains and hills
in the desert south of here. I know
because I drove through it. I watched
the clouds approaching from afar, reached them as pink sand snaked over the
road ahead of me and the horizon became an impossible thing to see. I watched as mile after mile of spires and
plateaus and arches appeared in the haze of dust, otherworldly, unfamiliar, and
beautiful. If only cities appeared
thusly in smog. Each mile I wondered how
long would this wild wind last? When
would it stop? Surely the mountains would
cut against it’s vigor.
Then I reached my home and
destination, windy still on the mesa of my childhood and sure enough the next
day it came, through the night and the mountains. High in the air like a
blizzard of dirt the clouds I’d driven through all the day previous arrived and
blocked out the sun. All day the wind
ripped at trees and shingles and howled around the eaves and windows. Other people were surprised, though I had
seen it coming. The setting sun,
obscured by dust, was not unfamiliar to me.
I knew the hundreds of miles I’d driven were flying above me in the sky.
There are things I don’t know, I’ve
yet to learn before I quit moving. Where
does such a wind come from? How does a
vicious, whipping force cover hundreds and hundreds of miles and then
disappear? Where does she go? And how long, how far, how fast must I drive
to find out?
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