Weight on Red Ground

A pulse. Sudden... heavy. I was flat on my back against a red, rippled plain. Not rock. Soft... fibrous. My fingers twitched first. I tightened my fist, pressing knuckles down into the coarse weave beneath me. It yielded. Real friction. I braced against the folds and pushed upward, rising onto one elbow. The red cloth bunched hard beneath my palm. Wide ridges spread outward into the dark. It is quiet. Still watching.