is it too soon to write a love letter?

from my perch sidesaddle on the back of a boda, i had an unencumbered view of hundreds of bats rise from the papyrus filled marsh and fill the muted dusk-cerulean sky–soaring in front of a golden full moon hanging low. the cool air of the marsh seems to at least momentarily cleanse the air. the din of car, matatu and boda motors–shouted luganda and blaring stereos juxtapose the wing’ed beauty silhouetted against the moon.

we pass a traffic police officer, head down and flipping through his phone, but waving traffic onward nonetheless.

the sound of a marabou stork taking flight–powerful wings displacing the air and dust to take its post in an acacia tree.

3:00p.m. rain. that never fails to soak the almost dry clothes.

the uninhibited meeting of new friends- perhaps strangers in any other city, but here-companions for at least this part of the journey. shared laughter.

the early morning light and twinkling lights of morning and evening on the hills of kampala.

oh, uganda.


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