When I was young my grandmother used to tell me about the dogs that lie just inside the dust storms, the writhing yet seemingly motionless tempests that barreled aimlessly across the fields, obscuring the sky like the hands of God. She told me that they were the reason the wind howled and, in a sense, cried in such a mournful and distant way. The pack would float down through the plains, inward on the towns and cities, as a presence that could only be described as wanting. They are free, but inbound, always scouring through the maelstroms, governed by something wholly indiscernible. They would turn the rivers black and thick till they flowed slowly like molasses, making tall hillocks of fine black dust on any upright surface. The sky would crackle with lightening, but it would never give release to rain just build a still anticipation while the air held a dry, electric chill that made skin go taut like paper and blister. There was always the threat of them taking unwitting souls braving the flurry, but they never did. Everyone stayed inside, though this was attributed to the wish to avoid the grimy tendrils more than the dogs. She said that this is why we hang our windchimes, the sounds sooth their anger, their hurt, their hunger. When you'd hear the soft clatter of hollowed metal in an abstract choir, you knew that the dogs were hearing it too.

Although they rarely came around, the veil of a sackcloth sky was a reminder of their pervasive being, an indication that they have never left the earth, just the recesses of our thoughts and only temporarily. I was never to go out in the arid sandy breezes, I was too callow to be judged. To be lifted as the soot fell, robbing the world of all sound. I thought, when she told me this, that the creatures were senseless and savage. I couldn't understand why they would capture children, mothers, fathers; even if they were frantic, chaotic and distressed. For a long while, I harbored much contempt for the animals, disgusted by their cruelty, their uncaring, their selfishness. I began to scare away strays by assailing them with broken branches or rocks, my fury always undermined by my own fear. Eventually my grandmother caught me in my choler, she scorned me for my lack of respect. I couldn't grasp how i was meant to respect and be wary of something at the same time, I guess in retrospect that is actually a very common occurrence in life. Incensed, she explained to me that the animals are our part of our blood and we their kindred. The wild dogs are lost, distraught, we are not here to question their motivations; we are the ones who drove them out and we have to repent and ask for peace. She told me just to be appreciative but differential, just to watch for the storms.

I listened, soon beginning to wonder if one day they would take me away. I daydreamed about them, what they did and where they went. After enough time, my curiosity turned to a resigned waiting that settled in the back of my daily reasoning. I could say I'm still lingering for them, still looking out to the horizon on a placid day, but that wouldn't be the truth. These days the most i do is, when i hear the ring of a windchime, I focus momentarily as if i have some secret awareness of what it means. But i know that i am alone.