The neon sun
just hangs there, an orange ball so playful it looks like a child’s drawing –
like it’s painted onto that spot, against a field of lavender, an inch above
the swatch of navy blue. But it’s on the move.
It passes through a wispy curtain of clouds and melts into an
impressionistic blur.
In the
foreground, heads bob in the dark velvety ripples, trying to catch the perfect
wave. One silhouetted surfer is up on his board, but the wave slides beneath
him and crashes onto the shore in a fury of white foam.
Fishermen pace
by with nets draped over their brown shoulders – even they take time to
cast glances at the sun’s show – or maybe they are fish-spotting. One wades in up to his waist and tosses his
net out like a lasso – it lands in an oval on the surface of the sea – he
cinches the rope and drags it in – holds it up his sack and little silvery fish
dangle like ornaments, luminous in the waning light.
A half-sun now
rests on the sea. It’s going quick. I glance down then back up from my page and
it’s a mound, like a cupped hand, then a sliver. Now it’s a spark that’s
extinguished in a blink.
Another day
done.
Sunsets are
useful; they make you take account. I’ve seen each one since I’ve arrived – ten
of them already, time slipping by here on the Oaxaca coast – not the slow
dripping Dali clocks of Rioverde time.
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