Cool; green; heat; dry; brown; dust . . .
The wind blows
enticing moisture from the dirt.
Forming quiet earth quakes
that sneak along rupturing the soil.
A small weed muscles the crack larger;
hiding in its shade,
making earth powder as it drinks the last dew.
It peeks up to bathe in the heat brought here on foul breath.
Inhaling into dry nostrils,
it leaves the earth gasping,
weary of filtering the particles that were once our home.