Give wind, water and gravity enough time and they can reduce the largest rock monolith to sand. I think of sand dunes as the rock conspiring with the wind in a futile attempt to rebuild the mountain, a kind of natural alliance designed to restore geographic memory. But it is not to be. A humpty-dumpty of a billion shards will defy reassembly, yet the great rippling fields of sand are impressive in ways the mountain can only dream of. The dunes move and morph before a fickle wind, alternating peaks and slacks in a sinuous choreography orchestrated by an ancient and relentless phantom.
Make the wind strong enough and the sand becomes a storm, mixing earth and air like a dry tide in darkened skies. All you can do in a sandstorm is hunker down to keep from being buried alive. Like all storms these pass, leaving fresh contours upon which we are allowed to etch our meager paths.
In Frank Herbert’s great space opera, Dune, the desert planet Arrakis forms the backdrop of an epic story of intrigue, peril and discovery. Throughout the novel and its follow-on works, we are introduced to this parched planet nearly devoid of water, the great dunes and the secrets they house.
Our dunes may not be as dramatic but they have a story to tell, each and every one.
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