At the top of a rise. The cliff of a dune. The crest of the ascent. The position of the descent. A place without shadow. A place one hundred and thirty degrees. A place rampant with military precision and targeting devices.
Stalled on a hill.
The steps like this: Unlock. Open. Strip papered trim. Remove pin. Lock stand. Lock to shoulder. Open sight. Breathe. Breathe. Flex fingers out. Flex fingers in. Steady. Re-steady. Sight. Call coordinates. Re-call coordinates. Breathe. Breathe. Flex fingers out. Flex fingers out. Grip. Sight.
The thing parts sand like waves. Moves on legs. Combs through the earth like grease and water. Finds the cool of his boot tread. Finds the breach of his sock. Finds the tan of his skin. The thing enters him like he enters a woman at night. Slow and easy and musical and melodic.
He feels nothing at first. Like a different kind of widow.
To be entered she must be open. To be open she must be prone. To be prone she must be under control. To be under control she must be dominated. To be dominated she must submit. To submit she must offer up everything.
Regardless of it all.
The moment comes when he twists. When he feels the pinch. It coincides perfectly. The trigger finger pulls and the metal swings and his calve tightens and he twists. He turns. Accepting poison without invitation. And the rocket penetrates a sky and recedes into a dune. The blast makes sand from sand.
There is no other affect.
He sleeps now on a dune.