Descriptions from the front porch hammock:
The clouds in front of the what could be a full moon seem like they are painted on the sky with a sponge, continually adding blotches of darker and lighter hues from left to right as the silent higher winds shepard them along.
To my left the stocky out of bloom mango tree looks like a hundred green hands and fingers, palms down in a limp wild cat´s claw pose.
The light goes out in the little red and white guard booth next to it.
The birds are chirping like dawn is on the horizon, but the night still has a long way to go.
I can hear from inside some of the volunteers quizing each other on the subjunctive and stirring crystal light packets into cups of water for a taste of sugar to tide them over until they fall fast asleep under clumsy ceiling fans that seem to trip over themselves every revolution.
I sit on the hammock and try not to make sense of it all. i´ve given up on understanding for the moment. thy will be done.
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