something like a lagniappe

I

First one must recognize the dryness, the dusty orange dryness which descends regularly upon the bodies and down around ashen ankles to the grasses and to the feet where it hangs solemn and unyielding for the ladybirds and grasshoppers to maintain healthy cosmologies. to shout and dance in atavistic glee, for the dryness always comes and sits and waits hanging atop the grasses, quiescent and grave and this is what we know. So we stand naked in the fields each night waiting to be washed dark and dry, keeping step with these feet creatures, who laugh and call us clumsy to our backs but remind sweet things to our faces just in case we have anything to do with the orange dust we all dance underneath each night. The beetles do not know that we are just as dust fearing, and perhaps it is better that they do not ask, for it could very well be the case that it is these tiny feet creatures who call the dust each night in that special language they speak. and who can be sure, really, what the tiny ones would do if they knew they had such power so it is best to forget that we do not know. it is best to dance lightly and to rejoice in the bronze silt that makes its way down and falls upon us each dusk. the dryness that nests in our hair and leaves a burnt glow on our night skin running down our throats killing voices. it deadens the sounds of our step and renders the world noiseless while our bodies dance in quiet unrest, throwing our heads back, bending and unbending the knees in slow, deliberate patterns [like the crickets have shown us]. Sometimes a child missteps and falls into the world of the tiny ones where he is received, taught a new step and then returned upright to continue the dance. We take note, and adjust accordingly.