The Africa Room. I look out the window as I fold laundry. The late summer sun dropping slowly, lower behind the South Minneapolis houses to the west. A movement from the tree, floating downward. A sharp burst of orange, suddenly, caught by the hot, bright beam of sunlight.
Just one.
The soft cloth bending in my hands.
Another glance. A gentle, quick flutter. Same hot beam, another burst of orange.
Folding. Look. A third burst of orange.
Sigh.
Small folded stacks.
Tank top, shorts, ankle socks I put on.
Look again. Wait. Stare. Nothing.
Sigh
Shoes.
Not yet.
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