A village, slowly waking

The coconuts aren't ripe yet —

but the gate is open and the air is warm. Anna is at the desk, writing the stories of this place. Coco is asleep in a patch of sun. The first harvest of sounds is still settling onto the trees.

There is a gecko on the kitchen wall who has been there since before Anna started counting. The afternoon rain comes at three. After it passes, the lane smells like wet stone for an hour. Coco knows both schedules better than she does.

Anna at her writing desk by the shuttered window, pen in hand over an open notebook, Coco the ginger cat curled asleep on a stack of books beside the lamp, potted plants crowding the warm little room.
the desk, most afternoons

Leave your name at the Village Post.