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Pastele Island
Glowing from the sun, the giant
pastele
counts things.
These almost belong to her but not quite . . .
Pastele
counting the hallway, how many meters long, tall, how
wide the distances, how deep the mud around the sea.
Then the
pastele
walks in a light trot, stops. At the corner of
the granary, smells mud left by a stranger. Oh, if that could
be the other
pastele
, but if it’s not, don’t come into my
corner, there’ll be trouble! And the giant
pastele
leaves a
thick, but shallow streak in the earth by the woodshed.
The
pastele
’s thoughts are also enormous, it would be
happy to kiss the sun, but can’t, it’s too high. Having driven
dust into trampled wrinkles, the
pastele
stands vertically
and looks about long, long. Tries to look fierce.
At night sleep won’t come, and the
pastele
decides to go
look for the lost mate. But in the dark land an almost worn-
out bast shoe looks almost as large. So the stranger dares to
enter and stay on the threshold.
“Away, away, away!” growls the
pastele
.
“Gills, gills, gills!” the adversary growls back and doesn’t
even consider leaving.