Metamorphosis

The desert at night lives.

A metamorphosis of the sand causes the previously stifling landscape to shift,

Becoming cold, swirling drifts of heavy, tan snow,

And the calm is tangible.

The fires are still burning,

the people are still singing, and

the air is still lit with the calming scent of heavy, perfumed smoke,

And it feels possible to live here in peace.

A hookah is still smoking from inside a tent, and

the previously stationary, sparse trees of the day become

alive, thrumming columns -

their crisp fronds shaken by the gentle night breeze.

The scene erupts with the crescendo of a sure, clear voice, singing above the rest -

sending the most powerful, hopeful notes into the sky, hurried on by the heat of the flames -

prayers and wishes that are put to music transcend past the simple words we use.

In this moment, it's almost as though the sacred sand beneath our feet is worth more than the blood and oil and acres spent claiming it -

almost as though the scars forced on this parcel of earth have not marred it beyond repair.

Almost.

This place shall fade into ruins, once the blasts have razed its sacred stones to the ground.