She rocked in lazy arcs and nodded to sleep,
victim to the heat and the steady chickering of the cicadas that sang evening songs to lonely old women.
Yolanda only felt loneliness in the dusk of the day, It was the meeting time of
a man and his woman. It forgave all wrongs of the night that lay still cold and heavy as an anvil at dawn. In the morning there were things to be done that hid the seeds of resentment under plates, inside cups.
It had always been this hour that had found her
vulnerable.
