Dust Devil

A marvel of deserts
That is often remarked
In textbooks and pamphlets

Is their slow rate of change—
The striking petroglyphs,
The century-old tracks

That look cut yesterday,
The dropped item still where
It fell, decades later.

But stare closer—drought cuts
Both ways. The wind and sun
Strip paint from wood briskly.

The mummification
May impress--skin and clothes,
Even whiskers intact--

But how quickly that flesh
Became that leather sack.
Even desert seasons

Are sudden, there being
Really just two of them—
Day, usually scorching,

Night, frequently freezing.
Change is a predator,
Mother of predation,

The full range of hunting
Techniques—charging at you,
Circling at a distance,

Stalking you stealthily,
Or pouncing from ambush.
Wherever it isn’t

Where you expected it,
It is right behind you,
Dust devil and demon.