The Wicked Witch of the West has no poppies stronger than Saharan Dust.

Last week, the beginning of the Saharan dust loomed in the skyline of San Antonio, rendering the horizon blue-green—under that familiar cerulean blue, peaking through the clouds. Sunsets are more colorful too. The golden hour becomes golden hours. The tippy tops of clouds are sherbet served atop a purple berry jam.

Eventually, the dust’s recoloring effects turn the skyline tan, leaving yellow hues in daylight and shadows. When the Saharan dust comes in full force, it’s a slow-motion sandstorm.

The dust wears me down. It gets in my eyes and sinuses, and my lungs feel weighted when I breathe normally.

On a full night’s sleep, I still wake up tired. If I decided to drink, I wake up extra dry, even after hydration. I come home after work and “nap” for two hours but wake up groggy and sore-faced.

The dust gets everywhere. The car filters get caked in. The central AC filter needs to be replaced sooner. By opening the doors and windows, you invite in microns of this stuff, which doesn’t sound like much until a trillion of them show up and spread out.

Though I want a scapegoat, the dust is not my biggest problem this week. Unsettled things are looking for thresholds like window sills and door frames. The dust is crying out, “Give me something to enter. Show me a way to exit. Just don’t leave me hanging in this suspended malaise.”

Eventually, the dust settles, turning into sand, falling nebulously through an hourglass of little bulbs and a wide neck. The beginning and the end come abruptly, and then there’s all this stuff in the middle passing by. I guess there’s room for it wherever and whenever it may land.

Photo credit: Highsmith, Carol M., Library of Congress