Sometimes I dream of a cave.
Soft red dirt spread over hard ground. Rough uneven walls that leave red dust clinging to your palms. A small fire in a shallow pit in the ground keeping you warm. The flames kept alive with dry grass and twigs, you watch them shrivel into ash, crackling, hypnotic. Its light cast a display of shadows, dancing across the red walls.
The mouth of the cave frames the cold Moon and her stellar subjects. Songs of the Night reach you with clarity and along with them, visions of the Night fill your mind; the humming desert locusts rubbing their legs on their wings, howling wolves courting the Moon, yipping wild dogs hunting in a pack.
In my red cave, I gaze at my hands, tracing the map of red lines criss-crossing my palms.