White flowers, dark creepers

Muted conversations are heard in the street in the gray shadows of the houses of dusk.Women squat on the steps of their houses to discuss their kids, husbands and neighbors.

Their memories go back to other evenings of kids, drunk husbands and bad neighbors, of the many pretty floral designs before houses other women made in rice powder and color.

The incense smoke from their four-armed gods enters the streets, reaches up tall trees and electric wires, going up in silk-smooth swirls. As darkness sets tiny white flowers break out from loving mother creepers on the houses like stars we often see burst on our roof at night.

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