The sun crests on the horizon, shades of burnt sienna, a spray of muddy wands traversing a dirty sky. With torpored gaze, we observe its slow descent, devoid of interest: transmutation to vapid ochre, indiscriminate casting of mustard hues.
Peering from heads lowered over stooped shoulders, over curved spines, arms hanging limp at our sides; wan eyes survey a smoky landscape. Forms looming, receding, pockmarked by tired, bent trees and faded pastel structures.
We step, one foot raised, lowered, then the other, an endless journey over circular paths. We stop unarrived. We continue unrested. Circumambulation, tireless, ceaseless. Silence, muffled tones, silence. The march continues unabated under the sinking ochre orb.
We are mute, deaf but for hushed echoes, so faint, imperceptible except in that moment when the foot has completed its rise, but has not begun to fall. In that briefest of interludes when all is stopped, the echo claps, echo echo echo. We hear, nod grunts of recognition and continue the pace as the indifferent eye of heaven darkens and sinks from view.