Dust Storms

Dust storms the creek bed,
leaving itself to lie.
It settled upon the aging
things that almost require death to cry.
Blown in are the particles—
Remains of a quick departure—
Where to? A question not of existence to ask
as statements reveal more than what should
have been the last—
Dust storms the creek bed in the face of it all.
It settled upon the aging things that were left to fall.