Dying of the Day

Crepuscular rays shimmer around the hummock overlooking the hamlet with its encampment of huts.

A Brainfever bird’s sunset song travels towards the hazy horizon. As its echo ebbs, another three-note doleful music in matching notes with full-throated ease emerges from a mist-shrouded treetop.

Call of a conch-shell at first from a cabin nearby, then from one yonder, soars into the sky. Afterward, it rises in a chorus to a crescendo as the village women blow vigorously upon the shells as if to dispel the gloom accumulated over the hapless earth like a sword of Damocles hanging by a single thread.

First published in f3

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