Dust dry
Dry. Dust-dry. It is the season of dust.
Blown mostly for it is the season of wind too but it also drifts. Wafts. Dust skrits and grits under the computer mouse like finger nails on a chalkboard. A patina on all horizontal and even vertical surfaces dulling the pictures in the office. Brown finger prints on the paper in the printer. Brown stains on shirt collars. Brown coagulated snot blown into the toilet paper.
Dust.
It piles on the cables under the desk discouraging pulling of electrical plugs. It is dry. Dry like the skin that scales and itches begging for moisture relief from a plastic bottle. The bush is dry too, begging desperately for rain that is still nearly three months away. It has to wait, patient and stark, stripped naked and scorched by fires that rage by day and glow at night.
Dust gathers and settles silently – day and night.
Feet no longer footfall but plopf soft in the talc dust. Paws kick up a trail of dust behind the running dog. Bicycle tyres lift a miniature upside-down waterfall of dust. It gets into the car through ageing seals, clogs air filters. It obscures the sun. It is everywhere. Insidious. Creeping.
It is the season of dust.
Zimbabwe Absurdity 
Lovely poetry. Thanks, and great picture too. Africa at dusk, soft sun through the dust and smoke of cooking fires.