Winter Retreat: Dubai

Cather Chronicle VI

Here at the center of everything
it's difficult to tell where the
sandy, January grass ends and
where I begin. Never has such
a lonely, barren place been so
bursting with life. Where the
placidity of the Plains crumples,
and brown grass takes on a
dimension words haven't found.
Even dust obscures the solitary
gravel road, masking any known
civilization.

Here in the middle, life expands
toward the horizon in endless
undulations of sanguine stems
and chalky shrubs. And if you'd
like to be on top of the world,
you need only climb to the nearest
ridge and watch the hills erupt
around you. And everything is
the same vibrant color of silence
and, therefore, indistinguishable.
If it weren't for the way the
sun grew shadows on the
ground or the unexpected shocks
of blue from forgotten streams,
you'd be forced to believe that
you had become completely
dissolved. Completely nothing.

Here at the center of everything
it's easy to linger a little long.
The center lies cloistered in
the quiet creases of the plains,
where even the wind knows to
tip-toe. It is lone. It is singular.
And it was not meant for you.