The morning is hot. The sun rises and stares down at the women sweeping their part of the sidewalk in front of their houses. It rises, and reaches its peak by lunch time, when its glare glazes over the hillside. By lunch, the ominous clouds have begun to form in the horizon. The pungent, yet fresh smell of wet pavement hits you like a premonition. The wind dances through you with arrogance; the swinging trees, the ruffled hair. Ocean blue clouds swallow up the sky like a wave. You see a flash crack the sky or reach down and touch the mountain tops. Or sometimes the lightning is hidden behind heaps of clouds, and the sparks make the sky look like a nineteenth century European battle painting. The rain falls suddenly on the streets and zinc roofs; the noise of a large crowed giving a long round of applause in honor of the far off light show. At night, the lighting makes the sky flicker like the walls of a darkened room with the television on.
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