![]() ![]() ![]() The air was so clear that she felt she was looking through a spyglass to the ends of the earth. She was sitting on a wooden stool in front of her house looking out over the fields and the valley to the hilltops in the distance. December, thought Mya Mya, is a hypocrite. ![]() December promises cold nights and mercifully cool days. Innocent rills turn to rushing torrents that devour careless piglets, lambs, or children, only to disgorge them, lifeless, in the valley below.īut December promises the people of Kalaw a respite from all of this. Worms and insects crawl out of its pores. The market reeks of rotting meat, while heavy black flies settle on the entrails and skulls of sheep and cattle. The air is clear and fresh, and only the most sensitive people can still detect any trace of the heavy, sweet scent of the tropical rainy season, when the clouds hang low over the village and the valley, and the water falls unchecked from the skies as if to slake a parched world’s thirst. The sun wanders from one side of the horizon to the other, but no longer climbs high enough to generate any real warmth. ![]()
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