Pregnant clouds and the promise of rain. I'm back in the Pomeroon where plantain birds sing with a deep, tongue-curling rasp: kwick-kwa-krew. I'm back where parrots gather at dawn. Today a round of green against purple, they kwi-kwi-kew-kew without pausing for breathe: a high pitched, quick tempo'd call for stragglers to join them.
It's 5.50am and already 20 degrees. As the sun rises, it's rays glorify the green. Turns swathes of dark green and black mangrove into luminescent mix of lime and verdigris. Each ripple of the river catches rays too. Each shines like a strip of foil carefully laid atop the swathes of green-brown. White garlins cast an elegant shadow: fly down river, inches above the water.
Brother walks to the end of the stelling. His legs bandy with old age. His back still proud. Crouching down on his heels, he leans forward. Scoops up water with cupped hands and begins his morning ritual.
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