A Weekend Out of Time

Up on the plateau, the wind dances and whispers. It makes the dry grasses tremble, slips under the buron’ s door, tangles in the hair, brushes against the skin.

A laundry day. The linens snap on the clothesline, calling out to the open air. Thick towels, still damp, soak up the scent of the wind and the sun. Pale light filters through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the cool stone. Everything is silent, except the wind. Everything moves, except time.