A heavy cloud of Saharan sand
swirls over the Caribbean for several days.
The sepia veil is so intense, at high noon
the sun looks like a full moon.
A thick film of dust on everything.
We must stay inside. The air quality is compromised.
Ever the poet,
a part of me smiles at the notion that,
in the current climate,
tiny bits of African earth rise by the billions to take flight.
They cross ocean. They swarm
and storm the New World. Dervish, they whirl.
Fill the streets. Echo. Pass over. Dare you to step outside
without a mask.