Hot Wind At Midnight Roused from sweat-drenched nightmare of flames and burning, melting fear, by tent flaps in roaring windstorm, I rise, throw back damp covers, emerge from zipper-down doorway into wind-blasted clear night sky. Holding hair back from upward gaze I stand, shoulders and thighs bare, riveting starglory pinnacle to earth. The campground is battened down but for dancing sparks across gravel, whirling windfled gypsy coals aloft; red-eyed demon-breath in hot gale, untended coals of camp fire spawn, rising, skipping fire-flies of danger. Dancing in wind-topped waves echoing rush of grassland (emptiness and no way kindle clear). I look around, primitive with fear for a vessel, a weapon, a staff to weild against this throng. Nothing. There is nothing. Darkness blends buckets to shadow and I search, hands running with feet. Grass, spider's web, tarpolin, plastic... Plastic! Peters, a double tubfull. My fingers close and I look up. Dancing and daring like devils aloft, catching here and there in spots. The wind whipping stronger, and hot. The tap is far and I run, bare-foot, warm sand, dry and rustling with motion, to the tap, thrummed over by tent strings. Its cold steel turns under slick fingers as I judge fullness by weight in darkness, my back bent downwind low. And turning and sloshing, and spilling and running, and gasping and leaping, I hurry to the source of spark. It hisses its vicious venom, steam rises from bloody veins as I pour. The sparks die on the soil bed and windeye dips shameful of its tantrum. Scent of coolness whispers midnight air. My mind begins to calm, to turn more inward. I hear the heavy pounding of my panicked heart; I breathe deeply, blessing the clarity of air. And those feverous dreams die in mind as too does hot wind that came at midnight, brutal and too tempted by fire. Copyright © Averil Bones 2000