Sunset

Beasts that swerve in screaming rays, riders that grit their teeth and strain against the pressure, a meager resistance. That of small prey driven into open basins, iron red dirt closing in. Bloody intentions carried on the wind. The type of malaise that sickens an animal to anger. To opening a maw and clenching down, down down. Iron red dirt. The scrabble of others biting at her heels.

She grinds shocks of light off corners, throwing glaring rays into the wind. Everyone behind shields their eyes. The others slow. And a crowd folds in on themselves, choking on dust.

A devastating gale descends. Carrying heat, holding blaze, herding her farther. Further.

One claws out from the downstream. The One that will not turn over. The One that pulls at her, drawing red from brown dips and valleys.

She will tear from their body. She will. She will make sure they do not make the journey back. There will be an empty dwelling once the dust recedes. An echo without its call.