sunshiney day

The red-ochred man stalks among the whistling grass,
looking over the ashen plain, from high on a ridge.
A thin-line of brightness marks the horizon of a grey storm-studded sky.
A dry chill wind kicks up the dust.
he puts his tongue out to taste it.
Musty.
The wooden club in his hand hangs slack.
Slow jazz streaks lines through the cold sand.
Softly, he says to himself.