Dust Devils 

Quiet Day

Her language was unknown to him. She motioned for water—he had none. Glancing down the highway he saw only heat shimmer and dust. He offered a white tablecloth as shelter from the sun. It fluttered like a wounded bird in the hot breeze. She declined—too easy to see, she gestured. He placed it back in the car. When he turned, she was gone, and the desert was silent.

—Norm Epstein


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