Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Writing

I don't consider myself much of a writer, but I wrote this for a class and I kinda liked it.
The smell of dry dust is only compounded by the endless site of its existence. The jagged rock protruding from the mountain sides are completely blanketed with the stuff. As we pass by a coniferous bush, it's smell seems to nicely compliment the dust.
The loosness of the sand does not help the fact that the trail is only about two-feet wide, and the drop is a few stories down.
Being consumed by the dry sand, my mouth constantly desires a sip from the canteen. The trek is two miles, but the canteen only holds twelve-ounces of fluid. The water needs to be conserved.
The beating of the sun is made pleasant by the constant breeze. My black cowboy hat keeps my wild hair at peace in the whirlwind. A few strands find their way out and are slapped against my face by the wind. I tuck them away, but their restraint is only temporary.