Whirlwind

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Crying to return to the desert, the hot dry wind circles the junipers and Mugho pines, snatches at brittle leaves, whips them up in a fury, with gravel dust, No tents. No camels. No sand. Where is there an expanse wider in which this small whirlwind can grow bigger as it needs to do to survive? To make dunes? To found a Sahara?

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