Riding on the motorbike today. Each ravine a separate pocket, a whoosh of cloud and passing rain on our faces as we descend and then rise up again. Golden sawa everywhere patched with fields cut-bare. Stone-grey storms obscure horizons but this air is fresh and bright, if not blue, then pale. The scent of clove trees in bloom, blacker and more sultry than dried, and somehow more perverse. Neighbors wave, Pak S. brings green coconuts, we stop to order coffee.
