Brown foam vanishes miraculously from the simmering surface at the fourth boil. The aluminium pot with the long handle rattles, then rests. And if I was writing, I'd say the nightmare wasn't over yet. Open, oversized windows on the south-east side invite in the sounds of the wheatfield swaying in the city desert breeze. Wheatstalks sway, humming.
Mules blink long lashes in the dusk, tied up and resting.
Square stone houses echo coffee pots rattling and the smell of coffee brew. Bedouin tents flutter noisily, Arabic bitter brew and cardamom seeds. If I was writing I'd say whirlpool argument. Intrigue spelling deception, spelling outsider. Opinions didn't matter.