It is May here in the tropics. This is the month in which the brooding seasons find they can no longer play. Night falls more quickly than before and I am caught out, riding too late on horseback. I enter my garden torchless -my blood still heightened by summer- remembering that death adders do not move if you approach them. Only last week there was a snake before me at night that did not move despite my stomping.
The river thins and loses the muddy hues it acquired in the monsoon. The trees are now bare of mangoes and the grass aches with one last burst of life, throttling me with its vivid green.