Dust

September 17

The wind can kick the dust with vitriol and power, striking through its target with the finesse of a Bruce Lee protege. 

The storm can work the dust into a frenzy, pushing all its buttons until, in a rage, it spirals into the sky, throwing fistful after fistful of earth at god himself. 

The breeze can lay the dust low and heavy, hanging in the air with forboding, a palpable reminder of how close, how present the earth is, ready to poke its way back into our lungs.

But every now and then—well, only once, per the myth of it—the wind hits the dust at a more loving angle. The softest soil and the lightest touch of air, breathe, making something new out of the tiniest bits of everything old, people coming from where they will eventually return.

A bunch of dust, wandering around, making a mess of things.

Morning Reading is a daily email to help center yourself, reflect, and prepare for the day. It’s sent with love from your friend, Zach in Austin, Texas. He even drew the logo himself.

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