A nasty west wind scours flesh
With fine black sand abrading all
Ripping, stinging, minute shotgun
Pellets pinging, so much power
You must lean back against the force
Stagger zombie-like, surf at six
Whomping down with the sudden force
Of big bore rifles fired up close.
We make three hundred yards, cross dunes
To woods, seeking cover, solace,
Perhaps, how man left savannahs
Stumbling two-legged, afraid,
A replay of evolution,
Eons changing less than we think.