Here, in October, scores of dragonflies fly about like miniature airplanes. Speckled butterflies collide with them floating in air like catamarans.
The morning slowly dries wet clothes. Dripping, they smell of blue detergent .The house there wakes up bleary-eyed. Hesitating shadows emerge from the walls ,a varnished gate, the midget of a woman on the concrete bench, in the garden measuring the length of her shadow.
A riot of bougainvillea bursts on the rock like a Chinese vase with fresh geraniums. Fresh coffee drip-drops into the percolator filling the air with delicious aroma amid all the blood and gore of newsprint. Soon you drift into a crimson state of forgetfulness.