Dust and pine.
More was around, of course, but the scent grew stronger as the hours wore on.
Dust and pine were all I knew; they, and the humid damp of the heavy air.
A softly whispering sigh; a lilt, a song, a hopeful prayer–
Tickling the nose, grounding the soul, forcing the heart into the earth and sky.

Dust and pine.
A hot plank of wood, steaming in the sun, the pores visibly bubbling moisture.
The course grain under fingers and the motes drifting through the air like flies–
Flies! Flies aplenty! No mere dust motes, these, but living, breathing swarms!
Droning! Singing!
Droning and singing: singing of dust and pine.

Dust and pine.
The glare from the windowpane aches in the mind, blinding the heart and mind and soul.
The air boils, the sun scalds, the light gags; the only relief is the dry earth, the wood…
A respite. A retreat. An oasis in the heat, a simple touch of a mother’s hand.
Grounding the soul. Droning. Singing. Singing of dust and pine.