For now, the smoke has given way to jasmine once more, if only the breath of memory. The air is still, but for the ripples the cicadas make, to say that this day will steam you ’til your bones grow limp.
No, the air is not still – not completely: the palm fronds dance with themselves, and the climbing spinach twirls its tendrils as I once did, reaching out for anything to take hold of.
We keep low today, crawl towards the water-hole, towards the cacophony of the gathering, towards the song of water on cool pebbles.
We long to go deeper.