The sun strikes you on the rim of your head and instead of making a halo around your head sketches your short body on the brown earth in black acrylic color.
The afternoon crows sit lazily on the dead tree’s branches and cry out an occasional caw reminding us of the coming of our guests.
Guests in these burning times when the sky pours out hot sunshine on the leafless branches? The crows continue to announce the arrival of guests with gusto,their bodies heaving rhythmically on the branch.
But where are the guests? The afternoon brought the news of the arrival of a hot girl in my cousin’s home.
She is hot because she was born this morning when the sun was burning fiercely .
But guests are guests .