The wedding feast is readied.
The giant tent firmly staked.
The table overflows with the seven wonders
of the palate. No one should be discontent.

Outside, the breeze stirs the dunes:
a shape-shifting horizon
seemingly too distant to matter.

All things well underway,
the groom stands to deliver
his speech, as the feast inexorably unfurls
in the blazing afternoon.
"Dearly beloved," he says.
"This is the happiest day of my life...."

As he heads back to his bride,
he feels a slight sting on his
heel. One of those pesky flies, no doubt.

Seated, he again turns to his wife with
yet another loving look, then collapses
onto the table, clattering dishes and glasses.

Within an hour, he is dead.
A slight breeze stirs the dunes.
Beneath the table, a fat-tailed scorpion
scurries toward the horizon.