.el kobri.

we're on this bridge which sways like a hammock with the thundering pass of each lorry truck. each whoosh brings with it a gust of sand, dirt, dust, small rocks even. it sends my hair blowing in every direction as if each lock is an arm reaching across my face, diagonally, beneath my chin, above my head, behind me...for something, something it can't grasp. another whoosh sets the locks on another mission, across my eyes this time and in my mouth- north, west, east, south. i try to contain them, a futile task, while vaguely observing the scene through the debris that has found refuge from the highway and passing tires in my eyes. between rapid blinks more dust enters my now flooding eyes, so i turn around. with my back to the commotion i survey the scene before me. under the bridge is a swamp like area with six cows, two camels and some other creatures that i can't quite make out; the lack of street lamps and dust in my eyes has hindered my sight significantly. the mud brick houses to the left of the animals are cushioned by tall grass and feature small slits as windows. i can see the light of oil lamps or candles flickering inside, and a man covered head to toe in white cotton stands in the door way gazing at the sleeping cows. the chunk of plastic that wedged itself between the front left tire and the bottom of the vehicle has now been dislodged. we re-enter the vehicle, join the whooshing lorries and continue our journey home. i keep wondering 'what if my home was under a swaying bridge...'