During the days there was glare and heat and baking sand and the parched tongue hoping for good water.
But at night, when they made camp, and the chill spooled at their feet and the camels chewed their cud and the humans picked the last crumbs of quick bread off their lap and the blankets were unrolled and small sounds of conversation carried on the breeze; there was ease, and sweetened tea, and the slowing beats of hearts ready for sleep.
And the sky, a dome of diamonds, flowing over them, the old and young and man and beast, as in their dreams they sleep with the moon and swim in the waters soon to ripple under the sun to the east.
Prosery prompt: “In their dreams they sleep with the moon.”–From Mary Oliver, “Death at Wind River”
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