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In Transit

The summer heat stabs the skin with needles. The usually

assertive acacia tree, sky-gazing with its leafy symmetries,

looks resigned. A man’s hand glistens with sweat-beads as

he scrolls up and down on his tablet. A little boy dressed in

tennis clothes practices rotating-the-ball movements with

his racket.

“When will the bus come?” the boy says. “It will,” the father


The boy rises on his toes, swipes the racket over his head

and with a swift swing cuts through the thick air. “Do you

like my serve?”

“Very much so, son.” The man takes away his hand and eyes

from the tablet, wipes the sweat trickling down his temples,

and feverishly returns to his device.

The boy makes interchangeable spinning and clipping

movements with his racket and starts singing:

“This land is

my land, this land is your land…. So I’m gonna let it shine, let

it shine, let it shine.”

“Daddy, do you like my music?”