Mother Earth

A shadow hovers on the edge of the dry expanse I'm crossing. The sound is there, hovering inside the shape of a building. I can feel its pull, but instead I crouch down, cautious, rubbing dust from my feet. I put my fingers to my nose and mouth, smelling and tasting the dust that I travel over. Humans have had to adapt for survival, not in obvious ways that we once read about in the science fiction novels of our youth, but in more subtle ways. In the dry dust I can taste life. My head swivels in response to external stimuli - another soft screech. I long to converse with this sound, but again, my own voice is nothing but a guttural croak. Disuse has rendered it impotent.