The hat flew from my head.
It landed on its brim on the salt-flat
and rolled over and over, over and over.
Somehow the wind kept it aloft and moving.
I ran after it and the black dog ran after me
barking and leaping and laughing,
until we curled into balls and rolled
over and over, the black dog, the hat and me
miles down the hard surface of the salt.
We kept moving after the sun had set
and the moon rose, high and full,
lighting up the long white lake.
Eventually we tired of the game
and the hat flopped over onto its crown
and the dog and I unrolled ourselves
and trudged back to camp.
But the moon kept on overhead
in its slow roll, silently, and as sterile as salt.