The figs are ripening.
The stream has slowed to a trickle, our pond, now silted up, is a shallow splash of clear water. In the midday heat Zach retreats to this shady pool, stands in the shallows, digs up wet mud, noses the cool water and eats fig leaves. I think: this must be the definition of canine paradise.
Builders knock and talk. Drill and talk. Thud the earth over and over again until there is a gaping hole where mountain was. Here (one day) will be house. A neighbour. In the meantime – stuttering generator noise drowns out our cicadas.
Flies have descended to remind us of mortality. Maggots squirm from the bin fattened on old dog food or bones.
Sleep. Day sleep. Night sleep. Hot sleep.
Costume stenciled on skin.
Naked nightsongs of nightjars and the lonely croaks of genets.
The figs are almost