Waiting for many stepping feet,
But I am the only one.
The air seems to live,
Pressing harshly on anyone who dares brave its unbearable heat,
It's got to be 100 degrees.
The ghost-whispers of students reach my listening ears,
And I know they are gone.
Gone... far, far from here and away.
The grass is dull, and the trees seem to call out for water,
This place is a desert.
I continue slowly, eyes searching the horizon for some sign of life,
But only a bird flies by,
Perhaps searching for water.
I keep waiting for the world around me to yield to the heat and burst into flames,
But everything remains still.
If I see any living creatures, I expect them to be driven mad with thirst,
So I walk circumspectly.
This place has really turned to a desert! But what makes a desert?
And how could I prove this?
Where are the cacti and carcasses and floating tumbleweeds?
Why not hills full of sand,
Rolling as far as the eye can see?
And hark... I see something I hoped to be a mirage.
Surely, then I would know this was a desert.
But alas it is not! What I see is real.
It's a great fortress called Kinlaw, a place of refuge for wayfaring travelers
I enter it in silence with respect for its timely appearance.
It's air conditioned.