Al a Figue by Satellite


It is late afternoon. Violets, reds, and yellows. The sun is yawning, and the young mother's shoulders are hot - unprotected in the sandy sundress. She leans over her child, on the dry and grassy hill. Her arms are brown, unfit, as strong as they need to be. The baby has a potential for dreams to be touched as his mother whispers to him with her sweet breath.

Then it fades.