Sometimes it waited after dark, when everyone was asleep, and moved in slowly like a thief, working its way into all the ruwas, up everyone's nostrils, seemingly intent on making the people's mountain existence a troublesome one

I think of today, of yesterday – of all the yesterdays – bitter-sweet as a twisted candle in the burnt-orange autumn air; amber gold liquid, filling smoky atmosphere purpled in a dusky venetian glass, and the scent of roses a bouquet shimmering

I trip on the dimples, pimples, / divots camouflaged in the sand