As the dust and sand
Sweeps up into a cyclone,
The air cracks up
Like a dried out salt flat.

The clouds run dark,
And the crops bend down.
An invisible roar appears,
Rushing this dry landscape
And catching it unawares.

Branches and brambles fly,
But there’s no water here;
Not enough for the sky to cry.

The landscape sits,
A dusted vermillion;
Cracked any dry
With skin so reptilian.