The Caravan

In the desert
it is cold
and a great mass of sound hits
you like an angry fist to the
stomach.
Again.
Again.
Jarring bones.
Shaking stone, it
is the tread of heavy beasts.
Their dim shapes like mountains at evening
capped with mahouts robed in dirty snow.

Amid those grey columns of heavy sound
flits the silver jingling of bells.
Laughter climbs their sides
festooned as they are with creakings and chortlings.

Again.
Again.
Jarring bones.
Rasing dust.

The caravan and its sounds pass you by.
You, who are
alone
in the desert.