I've been walking hot in dune prayer, wandering over sand hills and craters. There's no one here and alone is an odd place after awhile with no one to point me down the dune buggy road. Dune trees scrape my shoulders, cause my trail to meander.
An old woman lives out here. She puts up a flag for mail, or water. For what she needs. I can't see her, there's no flag either. I lick a salt stripe off my forearm, mixed with the faintest taste of hair. If I die out here they'll find me soon enough, my camera filled with pictures, smiling self-timed. I've been walking long in dune prayer, squinting into glare. I thirst for one straight path back. My legs are tired now. But prayers don't lead us home, do they? They just burn - like sand steps.