It is Sunday. There are choices to be made. The roads are lined with babble and spark. A chitter like tambourines. There is the smell of cook fires, the deep-promise smell of roasting. And dust. The fringe of awnings lifted for their shade, and the shade of them, and what collects in the droop of those coverings, the weightless and blowing. For all the shift and hammer, the birds are always finding places to land. I am still glad.