The crickets hold court, a tractor engine roars, a rusty seesaw creaks with childlike joy; machines whir, coffee berries are stripped naked; a noisy tray belies it’s clinking tea glasses and a million thoughts are sent as quiet sighs into the air.
The brick in-lay has made the soles of my feet red, and the moisture kisses the tips of my fingers.
The teatime chatter spreads it’s wings and gently nudges my shoulder. I turn it away and sit cross-legged, waiting.
I watch grey turn to darker grey and finally to black.
And I realize, in the deepest parts of my stomach, I do not want it to end.