Camels folded legs into dust,
patient, waiting for someone to say where.
We laughed, gave them names, smoothed coarse hair —
urban idiots riding for photos,
memories of a Gobi summer.
Adolescent boys led us over dunes,
wind in our face, building frames on camelback.
Your sons?
Not that many. Relatives. Here to adjust.
He welcomed us inside — the Gobi wind
shut out, smell of hide and curd,
painted chests along the latticed wall.
The mother sat on her bed. A guitar
lay flat and face-up, casual, as if
just set down between songs.
How did you start your herd?
Inherited, he said. Nurtured to growth.
The interpreter explained: herds divide,
camels passed to offspring, each child
starting on their own.
She asked about our lives.
I sit at a desk nine hours a day.
But youth are changing, I said.
Yes, she said. They prefer an easy life.
Who plays?
My son's. He passed away.
We stared awkwardly
at skin hardened by sun and cold,
and learned what the steppe teaches:
the earth gives life,
the wind takes it back,
and still the guitar holds its tune —
waiting, like the camels,
for a hand that knows the way.