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Dust Devil 

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Boots, laced, hit hard vibram soles upon gravel, step through sand bearing watermarks from recent floods, edged with boulders the size of banquet tables. Sound travels ineffably along the washes, dry now of summer's rampages.

Are you here? There? Sunning, running, climbing, lounging on the table of a gneiss boulder? The erosional demise of great mountain ranges claws at my feet, where, loafing beneath a mesquite, I find you waiting.

—Carl Stoeckel

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