Particle

 PARTICLE
 
A sandstorm has settled; grains of sand particles; rest softly in the palm of your hands.
Wind clouds swirl like a snake out of a basket, before dusk, the air heavy with what feels like one’s floating in circles. In a fleeting gold rush, intoxicating with being separated, in isolation as we embrace the sandstorm and long lines of violet dune hills.                                                             From when the earth was still dividing, and dividing still.

What’s behind them? You run from the shadows, chasing after an oasis, shimmering off the edges as though dancing on the sandstorm horizon.

But when you reach for it, it vanishes out of your hands: 
Evaporated off the shoulders of Atlas, leaving only the source of billions of sparkles of a sun molecule.

The remnant of a scarred land, a whisper of man’s conquest, having battled, fought, and won against nature’s will.
But the force is a quiet threat waiting to rise.