Harmatan
I understand it’s X-mas-time at home. The merchandise must have been out for months. Fall finally came here, but it’s been subtle. Instead of sweater weather and glorious color, we had a slight shift in the wind at the end of Ramadan- around the first of November. These southwesterlies have increased to become a continuous blow. The harmatan brings with it fine red desert sand that coats everything, inside and out, like the finest dusting of snow. Like the Brooklyn Bridge’s paint crew, Astou reaches the far end of the house only to begin again on the piles of dust on the far shore. Evenings are delightful. Finally, I can sleep with the windows wide open, the rickety ceiling fans wobbling. The sound of the wind in the palm trees at night is as dramatic as a late summer storm at home. As morning approaches, the crickets’ refrain is harmonized with the entrance of morning birds and later still with the first distant call to prayer. En fin, the serenade is broken by Quincy’s yapping at the stirring night guard. I hope they had as good a night’s sleep as I did.