From the depths of the creeping jungle the gypsy voices flowed. A soft, lilting rhythm. A song of the ages.
In the trees, the monkeys played and the colorful birds sang their sandpaper songs. The frogs hopped. The ants marched onward, intent in their six-legged transfixion. Was I frightened? Certainly. No matter how many years one spends in the jungle there is always the fear. Frightened. Yes, I was frightened, but I was also intrigued and so I crept close. Silently. Slowly. Maddeningly so.
When I came to the edge of the clearing the sunlight was explosive. I shielded my eyes and tried to look beyond the few remaining trees. And there she sat. A tiny girl with light brown hair and eyes the color of loyalty. Around her, a gathering had formed. Old and young. Poor and poor. They sang, and presented the girl with presents and sweets.
And in the jungle, the panther crept. In the jungle, the eagle shrieked it’s dominance with no reply. And the river flowed. And time marched on. And I stood transfixed, watching and wondering what the coming years would bring.