The boy held fast to the gnarled hand as they trudged up the hill. Their provisions were slowing their pace and making their feet sink deeper in the sand. As they crested the transient mound the boy gasped, “We’re late!”

The lights from the caravans looked like fallen stars on the parched landscape, growing fainter as they moved away in their hungry search.“Calm down, we still have time,” huffed his grandfather.

The old man told tales of wet storms with water running down from the sky. Sand and dirt stung the boys cheeks as the wind took up, foretelling a different kind of storm, and reminding the boy that the wet ones were just fairy tales.

Rounding over the crest, a statue knelt before them, revealed by the ever shifting landscape. The boys eyes grew wide. “I didn’t know we could fly?”

The man’s wizened face looked down at him with ancient sadness. “No, Michael, we used to swim.”

**This was a photo prompt for Madison Wood’s Friday Fictioneers.  Always looking for comments and criticism**