Under a cement water tank, many-colored clothes hang on a clothesline. The winter wind blows them, towards and away from each other. There is, if you do not concentrate too hard, a gentle pattern to the movement. Like someone working through the afternoon, humming gently, and unknowingly. This is the cloudy sunshine of an ordinary afternoon near the end of the year. The branches of a slender tree nod sleepily. Construction workers populate terraces, their voices playing in my sleep.
In the still countenance of such an afternoon, people often find the consolations of nostalgia. They like to remember their pasts, warts removed, as if this warm light always colored it. Swinging his hammer, the sound of which reaches me late into the night, the construction worker balances on a distant ledge. Perhaps he too remembers some less conscious period of his past, when the burden of living did not bother.
The rains have long gone. People now wait for spring and summer. My dreams alter incessantly, like flamingoes, at home in flight.
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