Wind tickles past my ears, whispering dreams of long ago. I turn my head to listen to the hard-wrought tales of giants and men, of stones and bones, of beauty and pain.
“I want to go.”
“This is boring.”
“Hush,” I say. I wave my flat palm up and down. “It’s almost sunset.”
“There is no service here.”
“I’m cold.”
Balloons rise under bruised heavens. Bickering fades to the slow rising spectacle.
Even the breeze riding ghosts draw pause.
A moment, like many, though not. An instant when colors and canvas and the creator intersect as none before or again.
Picture is copyright by Moyan Brenn.
Daily post prompt: Desert.
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