White Sun

 Coyote was laying low. In the heat, birds would not deign to crack their throats let alone sing for another hour. Even the normal low rumble of human endeavor at the quarry was silent. The only movement seemed to come from the popping of nearby rocks and a trio or crows rolling in the dust. The quiet was eerie, but I couldn't blame the birds for their lack of cheerful warbling though, this time, even the mournful lament of dove was sharply hushed. 

The sun, white hot and engorged, filled half the visible sky. Wisps, tendrils of her breath found me, my throat like a cardboard tube, dried and withered. There was no sensation, I wasn't sure blood flowed there anymore; was I sucking in oxygen and soot? I must be. Her slender fingers, stretched out and trailing behind, scratched the earth, sparked the air igniting terrestrial flames, with smears of smoke staining the southern horizon.

"Horizon of blue, hills are rollin'

Walkin' with you through a field of red stones

I been confused from voices callin', callin' to me

Where the white sun has shown..."

(Johnston, Doobie Brothers)