It's a little desert, near Maspalomas, nestled on the south-eastern edge of Gran Canaria, facing Africa, harvesting sand from the high winds blowing out of the Sahara, and mixing those sand with local ground shells and black volcanic sands. A storm had raged all night, raising both sea and sands.
The wind tolerated no contours but its own, every little stone was edged in sand.
And the wind much preferred the stoneless soft sand ridges, softening them in blurry whirls and whisps.
The wind was fierce, driving sand towards the sea, back to Africa. People were not its priority, and it would not let you turn back.
The storm traced lines both horizontal and vertical, creating a Martian sandscape, fractal in its intricacies, uncertain of its dimensions. Cheating the eye.
Abrasion off wounded cliffs, cuts in the skin of dunes. Unveiling the anatomy of the desert, Atlantic black on African white, volcanic lines in the vast sea of shell sand. First shadow stolen from the noon sun.
This desert has an elemental twin. As sand churns in the dunes, the sea is roiling, pebbles flung on the sand, a gnawing border cut into the foot of the last dune. A path of two physics.
The storm had only one night. For all its power, it could not erase the human trace. Yet.