There was a crossing — in the year of dry winds. The camels groaned before dawn. The sand held the night like iron. We were men of weight and measure. We believed in distance. We believed in return. The sun rose without mercy. The horizon repeated itself. The wind erased our tracks. Toward evening — the air grew still. Not calmer. Withheld. The camels knelt without command. It stood. Not near. Not far. The sky seemed arranged around it. Distance failed. We did not kneel. Yet something in us inclined. It required nothing. It simply was. We had thought our cities permanent. Our gods attentive. Before that silence — they thinned. It was not terror. It was magnitude. We were smaller — and greater. There was a crossing — in the year of dry winds. We left before dawn. The markets were loud. The walls seemed temporary. Voices theatrical. We had stood before what does not pass. There was a crossing — in the year of dry winds. And we are not at home in what we are.
