Caravans carefully cross empty mesquite desert
between howls from creatures too small to produce them.
There is a slight bump and the convoy tips.
Tips, tips, tips, like snapping fingers, tipping over cauldrons filled with molten magma. They laugh a maniacal laughter as they slip through millenniums of sand, counter intuitively freezing.
Long gone Pharaohs, oil drums and abandoned spare tires.
Once was lost, but now I've found.