Drabble: Striving After the Wind

There is nothing here, nothing of importance. Only the wastes of a desert stretching out toward the cool horizon, and the haze of the heat, unseen scorpions, only these. Yet I see nothing else. I see sand, lots of sand. There is nothing here.

The hot sun overhead is deadly, I know, especially out there where there is no shade. There is nothing in the sand.

But the wind calls to me, dancing, invisible, playing her tunes. She is out in the desert, and will not suffer me to tarry longer. On, on, on, she bids me follow her on.