I am looking out my window, to my village, or what I would think of like so. It isn’t, a village that is. A suburb of rowdy, bustling, growing
Since the year began, it has been beautiful, sunny weather.
A clear blue sky, that once in a while shows the chasing clouds. Huge, blinding white pieces of wool, across a calm blue, unchanging sea.
It’s the dry season, in this country of eternal summer and spring.
The dry season, with the winds not stirring for now, the sun out bright, a constant companion. The heat, the dust, the constant golden light that seems to touch everything.
No, I do not wish for the wet season. I want to be shirtless, to feel the touch of sun when I move out from under the shadow. Its tempting, yet too warm- chases me into the cool tree shades every few minutes.
I don’t wish for the wet, because that will come in its own time. At the moment, the green of the leaves is touched with the brown of dust. A coating heavier nearer the roads, testament to the number of days it has not rained.
When the cars pass, it rises, the red brown dust, in clouds choking and deep, soon settling, because the air is not moving. Not much.
But that would take a piece of it away, the beauty.
I would rather live in the now- picking the chords of happiness out of the very air, than reflect on what is in the past. Yes, even if it is thinking of breaking open this bottle of sunshine on the deepest days of overcast.
It is beautiful. Cant help being, it is home, and I am in love with it.