In the workaday light the sun, like a blacksmith, leaves its hammer print on the cliffside, and at night when all is cool and placid stars are flashing like knitting needles, busy at their constellations.
Nothing is ever idle here.
Not even quince and oleander burning their sabbath incense, nor hedges of morning glory bearing trays of purple cups big enough to drink from, not even the cat who wobbles by like a fishing boat with a full cargo of kittens, not even the cobblestones that save up warmth for the evening. All rights reserved.