Red dust on the computer screen, collected during long days before an open widow, fragments floating silently.
Red dust on my pillow case, slowly, invisibly coming through the window as the workers next door stamp the earth until it rises up in clouds.
Red dust on my skirt, left after brushing up against on a car on my way into school.
Red dust on the car dash board, caught as a miniscule speck after speck through the cracks in the window while driving through the city.
Red dust on my shoes, as I tread upon red dirt pressed down by so many others before me.
Red dust on my desk, floating through the room, brought in on the heels of students.
Red dust under my fingernails, I have touched everything that has been touched by the red dust before.
Red dust in my eyes, captured as I lean out of the car window to glimpse a child rolling a tire, laughter in his midst.
Red dust gently pressed, stamped, dug and lifted by the feet, tires and hands of a million people.