Jeeping

There is no way to discern direction, save the strange mass of darker blue in the distant sky. Like a flock of birds there is one jeep in charge of the direction, while everyone else flash the whites of their eyes to check sidelong.

As we rumbled further the blue starts to tinge red like a mountain has caught fire, so gradually that it might appear sudden if inattentive. Closer yet, it becomes a pink blush against the horizon, then the dunes proper rise golden and smooth, dollop of whipped cream.