the Phlog

We’re crunching through sand where the wadi spills its guts out, the badlands of sand and dust and bits and pieces of stone carried with the floods that no one remembers, carried from Jebel Gahwan that you cannot see through the sandy haze of the afternoon churned up by the wind that blows three months a year, the wind that stops the fishing and sends even the bedouin running for cover, deep inland, and their houses lie abandoned and we’re the only ones left, and we’re eating tuna biriyani while the sand blows through the house, rice and chickpeas and lemon and fried onion and fish eggs and salad and vermicelli, and we’re eating so fast we can’t breathe and then there’s sweetened tea with a  bit of bitter from the nana leaves dissolved.

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