A whiny voice and fast drums rattle between my ears, making it hard to think. Mercifully, a door closes, turning up the volume in the courtyard. The red brick walkway is even, bruised black by too many cracked glasses and soft skin slowly flaying it away. Baked crisp and shiny by a sun altogether too cheerful and charitable with its warmth. The brown clay of the rood has similarly burnt, like rows and rows of trashed toast. The clear tarp hangs in a corner, a membrane pulled taut over ageing wood, morning dew clinging to it desperately as the sun tries to tug it away. Fingers of light reaching down and stroking the canopy like a cat, removing droplets one at a time.
There is nothing but calm here. The clinking of iron door latches, the whistling of the annoying morning tanager, the soft steps walking in trenches below. But still my heart races. Still my thoughts cannot stay on temporary calm. My finger twitches, in anticipation of the coming storm.
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