White Sands billows up from the Tularosa Basin, sheets thrown hurriedly over sleeping giants. To climb the dunes is to be thrashing in an ocean of searing white.
Nothing is what it seems. Suddenly the car is a toy in the distance and the other visitors' whispers are thunder in my ears.
The constant shifting furrows its surface as well as its history. In the breeze, the pearl grains offer whispery secrets along the dune edge,
and the storm clouds to the northwest swell like mushrooms.
a swirling bed and
milky pillow for Vishnu
destroyer of worlds