On the bridge toward IRRI housing, the creek is difficult to see. The foliage is thick. But you can still hear the river flow.
I read a few pages of Dillard’s book as I rest on the side of Drillon road. I raise my head, and I see an unknown bird fly. It vanishes behind a tree. A few seconds later, I hear the air roar, and a thin sheet of a white line appears in the sky. I watch it as it traverses endless blue.
As I walk back home, the cicadas sound a deafening siren. A black dog barks as it approaches me. On my face, the wind blows as the night weaves a mask of darkness with no eyes.