The Maker: MicroNovella

And then the child, barely two, gave his mother a mud toy far littler than he, and less cuddly. She paused to savor the magic of that fleeting moment, which she had never had. And quickly got him out of the path of a dusty wind just arrived from nowhere. Ruffling all the hung shukas and swaying the lean trees.

He seemed puzzled by the hidden force which could raise as much dust as he saw swirling in the afternoon air, making the trees hum. Dusting hair. Making the eyes water. 

After, he wanted to mirror the wind's might, to see how far the soil could go out of his hands and into the air. And it didn't really go.

When the wind was truly gone and the dust settled he asked mama in uneven words who it was that made her too, as he could see her, there before him. And if he could have the maker to play with and make things out of the same mud of the earth with. 

Out of the pebbles he could throw in every which direction in quick succession, he wanted her to have three. But drowsiness crept in before she could answer. And took over. He fell asleep before her hands could reach them pebbles, in his mama's lap. 

Whereupon he floated, free, without fear, and saw many, many things he wanted to show mama. He called and called, but she couldn't hear his sleep talk. She didn't see his finger point to any of the things he wanted her eyes to turn to. He was invisible in his flight. 

When he woke up he had no words to put any of those things into.

Old Trader: Haiku

Day offers no rest.
All dust's in the stranger's shoes.
Night hints at old lights.

A Dusty Interlude: Haiku

Dust in the hair.
Dust. In my beholder's eye.
Floodin' the daisies!