Everywhere about the house in my dream, the sand was endlessly blowing, burying the print of the coyote and lizard, rattling in the vibora weed, driftng close to the ground like barren snow so that the whole earth seemed to be moving, a restless gray ghost of itself trying to find those lusty prairie breasts, fertile as a woman and flowing with milk and wild honey, that used to be.

The sun beats down with a merciless white fire until the cloudless sky is scarcely blue but rather like the blade of a knife that for days has been ground to the stone.