February is my month of rhapsodies, the mellowed
wind springs a rhythm, and
the sun gently whispering
into nooks of doors, slab stones with tinned roofs glistening, school children in hushed voices speak to parents about books to be bought.
The winter’s cold is like migratory birds, comes and goes. The
peripatetic wind is a fast traveller, but stormy roofs feel its
weight. And then the rains will come bringing seasonal cycles to a dead end.
