The air stroked the panels, a flurry of sand easing off the fortified skin while the air racing past burnished the surface.
On the outside, bounding toward the sky under the grasp of sunlight the dark bird of the desert was alive — level with the sun leaving its string of sand tail feathers behind in long strokes, homecoming to earth in virtually silent steps of millions of tiny beads.
The bird approached the cap of its aerial parabola, dipping its prow down to Earth. Glistening under the showers of sun, the bird descending toward the land — no longer airborne — its flight interrupted, it braced for impact in an expectant stance.
Its form braced, digging its tires into the heavy sands — kicking the dust on contact back into the air.
Taking off like the lightning across the dark-lit sky against the surface of the firm ground, the dark form of the bird ran across the plains — the lively elements by which it was made whirred, pushing the streaked bullet-like bird faster — the sand beat across its face, catching on the rims of its crimson firelight beating heavily against the burning light of day. Its pastel tan feathers picked up again and swirled storm-like behind as the bird continued to rush beneath the sunbeams.
It continued forth vanishing into the slit between the earth and sky — it hasn't been seen since…Nobody knows where it might be now — nobody knows where it goes…and everybody wishes to see it once more level with the sun and beat its grand wings against the waves of light —
