Saharan Dust Magic
The sky tells such a story
Hello friends,
Saharan dust has come once again. It arrives every summer, although some years it’s stronger than others. This year, the sands made the journey en masse. They threw themselves into the sky and flew across the ocean, buoyed by trade winds and traveler’s dreams. What must it feel like to scatter yourself on the wind and end up in a faraway land?
The sunsets don’t seem real. The swamp and the desert combine, and for a brief moment, magic becomes real. A few years back, the last time the dust clouds demanded to be noticed, I wrote a poem in their honor.
Saharan dust gathers off the coast, throwing a blanket over air already heavy with humidity. North Africa gathered itself and leapt into the heavens. The sand rallied together for strength, preparing for the five-thousand mile journey ahead. Here on distant shores, the setting sun glints off the huddled masses, scattering fiery reds and smoldering oranges over a canvas of milky skies. These weary travelers bend the light to project their beauty through the haze.
Although the sunsets are impeccable, the days are dull. Dust clouds are different than storm clouds, and the subtleties can be seen in the shades of grey that fall back to Earth. There is no thundering darkness. There is only quiet condensation unable to build in such a thirsty sky. Everything is flat—a mostly uniform grey shrouded in sickly yellow. While the night colors are exaggerated versions of normalcy, the day colors seem unsure of themselves, like they know they don’t belong here. It’s a strange feeling when the sky you know so well becomes foreign to you.
The dust is dissipating now, and my usual summer clouds are returning. Some are almost purple, like bruises left from the pressure of storms aching to return. Others are bright white, jubilant in their billowing towers of reflection. The sun blares down around them, outlining their curves in a shining embrace. The blue peeks through where it can, and I find myself relaxing into the comfort of a familiar sky.
Until next time,
Yardena
WEEKEND POTPOURRI:
Currently on repeat:
A(nother) poem:
MIDSUMMER, TOBAGO
By Derek Walcott
Broad sun-stoned beaches. White heat. A green river. A bridge, scorched yellow palms from the summer-sleeping house drowsing through August. Days I have held, days I have lost, days that outgrow, like daughters, my harbouring arms.
So beautiful!