In the harvested field near the canal, she roams with a mind slid from its rail. Her muddy skirt and brownish hairs flutter in the salty wind like flags of insanity. A lonely night – the west wind smells burnt fish. Fire burns like her emotions on the bank. “During the windy season, lunacy’s let loose” – her shrieks and shouts are neglected in the rural logic. As her stomach swells like a ball day by day, many questions bulge out. First published in issue #17 of The Literary Hatchet