At night, while there is still diffuse light, enough to see silhouettes and vague monochromes, the places where they shelter from the uncaring sun flap sometimes in the wind. Each dwelling has a hearth and sometimes there is fire: it gets cold in the desert at night. So cold, so quickly, that the ground itself cries out in pain.
They tell the few tourists that this nocturnal howl is "the sound of the sand singing." People honeymoon here; I suppose to them the screaming stretched landscape becomes a magical, romantic thing. Everything so huge and us here so small yet, the warmth of your hand is insurance against all of life's inevitable harm.
As the light fades and the endearments turn to murmurs the flapping canvasses seem ships upon a waterless sea of beach, sails full of wind yet powerless to propel.
