Some perfect morning you will sit on the side porch of a house on the First Cross Street of a village far, far in the North.
English will have been forgotten there along with Portuguese and all you will see is the steady rattle of an orthography you don't understand.
And hear the fast and peppery staccato speech of a people you haven't known. And watch drops of morning rain become puddle. And spy the turn of a chameleon's head, its tail as pale as a leaf.
You will imagine the contours of the Indian Ocean and you will feel the contours of wet orange roof tile. Crows will hawk in the gray morning light and the gray sky will hawk back at them.
Leaves and fronds will stay as still as day while gathering moisture or retreating moisture provides an invisible shield until later when the sun will burn and make this moment forgotten.
The stillness will be underlain by an hour of human activity but fires will not have been started but lights are out and distant motors on the distant road remind of isolation not complete.
Unraveling of night complete with the last rooster call and flies awake before the fishermen undo their bundles of drying catch. The powerful still air will make you languid. You will want to drink more of it to prove you are alive.
Drops will drip from leaves and vines will tether and sounds of metal doors opening like boards on pipes will verberate and resound. A tiny trail of airborne jasmine will make its hint at your nostrils.