quiet as the drifts
on the facing side of the dunes
show tufts of broom grass
dry as the bone
a long season blown
starchly white a crisp
dusting devils coy
sideways spun around
the vagaries of the element
uncontrolled uncontained unknown
expect for the tracing
tiny shelf steps around the bank
ledges for no reason no purpose
leading down down to the light sands
dry here wet there crumbly with action
the steps of a wild bunch
the lately untamed
and rowdy and running
left a galloping step
deep pressing wet sands that held
an impenetrable torrent of action
fled in haste
or marshaled primitive
the vanguard of a raging movement
a passing wave
sudsy brine to wipe clean
a tapestry for portent
where needle seeks the thread
all the wild racing
would be racing