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For all I complain about the heat, I love the weather here. The sun is fearful and dreadful and I love it. I hide from it, I go about by night to avoid being out in the day, but I love the sun. I love the desert wind.

I love the desert sky and the way it makes me work for the sunrise, work for the sunset. In Alaska, the sunsets lie there waiting for the observer to take notice; they're an art of subtle change that take hours to develop into a final form. Here, the sunrise is brief enough to require effort to look the right way at the right time lest the morning's first cloud-pyrotechnics be missed.

The sun shines impossibly high at noon. The winds are fearsome things that rip limbs from trees and scour out the sky with ceaseless dust. Lightning ripples in spiderweb patterns across the belly of the sky, gravid with rain that may take another nine months to fall.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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