The Sand Dune Teacher

I watch my teacherahead of me —he walksupand downthe golden dunes.Sand trails fromthe hourglass of his hand.We’ve walked so farthat I can’t recallhis face. Weariness sits,a shroud on his shoulders.

Even so, I did not expect himto pause,mid-dune —he never paused mid-dune —and half-turn,towards me.Sand whips my cheek,words suffocate the arid air.He is leaving.

He can’t walk the duneswith me,with anyone.Not even by himself.

He sinks into the quicksandof the creeping dusk.There is a raw moment,a fissure,before I start to walkup and downthe flickering dunes,chasing the firefliesahead of me.