A dust devil appeared in the field nearby my home. Since I becoming a professional writer, I have spent most of the day writing on my shaded porch. The dust devil intensified and grew in height to a hundred yards. A wind whistled across the cornices of my porch roof.
Dreamer that I am, I imagined that someone was singing around the corner of my home. Singing in a whisper at first, then chanting, and louder still until the full throaty song prickled my ear.
“Yes, I am here…”, said the Dust Devil.
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It was very early and only the morning shift workers had entered the cafe. It was still dark but for the lights shining through the cafe’s large windows. The early morning regular was patiently waiting outside at the door.
In the day time, the street was busy with tourists walking about on the sidewalk and cars driving slowly through the little street. But in the early hours the street was very quiet. The regular liked to stand on the sidewalk with this own coffee mug, for a few minutes before the doors were unlocked. He looked at nothing in particular but always seemed to be listening for something.
“Last month he lost his job,” the older waiter said.
“Well, that’s not too unusual right now, but it’s tough.”
“He’s an old man. It’s hard to find a job. His wife left him too.”
“Money, of course.”
“How do you know it was money?”
“Isn’t it always?”
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