We stood, Joyce and I, at a desert's edge, facing 3,000 miles of sand.
Behind us, in an outdoor market, villagers sold dates and figs and leather belts and wind-up alarm clocks. We didn't know the language, but we bought a few figs, by pointing, then extending a handful of coins, for the seller to choose among.
So, munching our figs, we stood where the oasis ended and the desert began. If we walked out there, we knew, under that lethal sun, we'd soon die. We guessed nothing lived on that sand.
Then, out of the village, three white-robed men rode camels, each beast laden with wicker baskets and burlap sacks. Trading goods, we guessed. Each camel wore a strap of bells around its neck.
We watched the camels stride out onto the sand, their riders relaxed in their saddles, chatting convivially, as if they followed a familiar road. Maybe they exchanged village gossip, or discussed today's price of myrrh.
Camels and riders dwindled, finally too distant to see. Yet, we still heard their bells ringing.
At odd moments, I remember that sound, long ago, bells out on the desert.
--Richard