The calm, cool surge of midnight under congested skies, the one night of pure humidity.

The next morning it will be a dream when sizzles of light scorch from adobe rooftops.

Sheets, ancient and faded purple, make the only tangible sound in the dusty dark.

Droplet. Dripping down from a squeegee of cotton in the brown water of the garden pot.

My eyelids move quickly to keep up with beat.

Woosh, tap, rustle, snap.

A line of rope awaits, ripe with eucalyptus oils.


Spreading the cloth, the patterns reveal themselves.


Sleep well, they say. Don’t worry. The morning is bright.


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