The sand sweltered. It groaned, rising up and falling again, rippling as it moved. It danced in the wind, spinning, flailing. It moved constantly, desperate for relief, for shelter.
The smallest grains rose the highest, soared the longest. But beyond the borders they never could pass. Always, in the end, they would fall back down, burning with exhaustion.
The lucky ones found life under plants that rose spectacularly. Their shade was glorious, and the animals they attracted a sweet relief to the monotony of blue skies, of the rolling heat.
At night the stars engulfed the sky, millions of lights that mirrored the sand. But no matter how high the wind swept the sand upwards, they would never reach their brethren.
Down they would sigh, waiting, waiting for the eager storms to whip them up. The storms that screamed and cried and billowed without restraint. Sometimes they encountered travelers, or desert dwellers, but these beings received no pity.
The sand cut whatever it could reach, and misted through even the smallest holes. An angered cry, perhaps vengeance, jealousy, of those who could leave whenever they pleased.
Its fury satisfied at least for the moment, the storm would pass and the sand would settle and all would be calm. Suffocatingly still.
The sand would dry and soak whatever life it could from all beings above. And with this energy once more it would rise with the wind.