Carabaos in full body mud masks left on for too long, cracked in Voronoi manner. Docile, peaceful, unassuming. Wind and water papered these rocks, leaving coconut trees broken in half like pencils by angry little boys with rosy cheeks. Shard tip trunks pierced an opaque fog. A white marshmallow puff forced its way out of a crowded, brooding greyness, giving us hope for blue. Putting our faith in it like a miniature god. Heaven-reaching mountains absorbed the rain, trading it for a dense, lush green we would sleep on as giants. Valleys drowned a little, then flourished. Nonchalant children walked miles downhill toward humble bamboo shacks, making windshield-wiped cars seem like wimps; the rain not affecting, their vision clearer than when skies are blue. Fatherly trees, flowering sibling shrubs, and infant crops greeted them as they passed and they, with hands out as if saying hello to fans, acknowledged each personally, genuinely; smiles mutual, eternal.
It hadn't rained in almost a week, so the water was clean and running. We could finally brush our malunggay-leaved teeth and bathe our sand speckled bodies. Outside our window, green cannonball coconuts awaited rescue, and sunbeams invited the rice to grow again.
No comments:
Post a Comment