Pooped dogs of Thiruchendur

Growing testy after verges, exploding open like the dead hard legs of crabs in a human maw

She wondered, when will this dust stop? Abate, conceal, assume proportions miniature, opaque

Fighting muggy sleep in the last hours before dark, her fan appropriated sounds of the outside

And forced its gently whirring symphony upon the restless ear it swung and shone in deepening distress

The morning horns and drums sounded and with them, the canned religious music, Tamil language

But indeterminate in timbre tone and topic. Falling birds and a salt in the air that stayed. Hot and caustic poring, suffusing

Arbitrary children's screams behind corrugated fences and outside in the sand? Dogs so pooped they curled in the heat.