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.