The Thief
SMALL CLOUDS OF POWDER rose where the feet of the dark women trod. Those sisters, their sun-faded skirts splaying slightly as they walked, tapped, at random moments, on the pots perched on their heads. Poppies sprouted from their vessels.
In the distance, a stone and mud dwelling exhaled hot air through a hole in a roof. A skinny horse whinnied. Farther along that road, a craftsman tinkered beneath a worn sheet. His awning perched on roughly carved poles. His anvil leant sparks and heat to the morning. For small moments, his hands settled on an awl, on a file, or directly on a bit of shiny material.
A dusty child, corn cake hanging out of its mouth, stopped suddenly in front of the artist’s iron block. A pretty, half-moon pendant was taking shape there. The young one’s dirty h
