The sun crisps all it lights. Flora shrink and curl. Fauna pant in the shade.
The girls, not yet seven, brave the desert in pursuit of quartz, amber, and basalt with which to fashion their art.
Making noon, Mom rings the bell then cries, “Halloo.”
She watches while the boys and their father shuffle from the barn then yells again, “Halloo lunch.”
“Where’s Nooni and Loodia?” asks Father while he washes.
“Run fetch the girls, you,” says the Mother to the ether but the boys know she means them.
The buzzards, crows, and ants are already at lunch with the girls.