Gloaming Dunes

[Sean Puckett]

I kept company with the moon. 
Watching its pearl rain shimmer over the dunes. 
My legs crossed and limp. 
Counterfeit sage in unkempt robe. 
I listen, yet the moon is silent.
The stone beneath me, silent. 

The sand speaks to me 
in a language I cannot understand. 

Leaning my head back against this rocky seat. 
My grand meditation — popping in my back. 

I gaze at the waves of earth. 
Murmuring grains crawling over themselves. 
Each smooth mote a puzzle.
The breeze grips through my fabric. And I,

I’m cold. 

I groan to my feet and stumble from my perch. 
My preaching but a sigh with begging hands
tossed briefly skyward 
before they clap
harsh against the sand-dusted cotton
of this mystic’s costume. 

The moon has left me to my pacing. 
Hush of my boots sinking in the ground,
trudging in my circle. Waiting. 
Shuffling 
— waiting. 

Daybreak comes as an ambush. A march of bronze spears
held over the horizon. 
The air wars above the sand. 
I watch between the fingers of my outstretched hand. 
My eyes wince. Palm burns. 
It’s a song. 

Fool. It’s a song.