High plains

 

En un lugar de la Mancha, de cuyo nombre no quiero acordame . . .

Sahara dust; a grey afternoon, a white sunset. The sparrows roost uproariously. Martins perch fleetingly on the outermost leaves of the same tree, then dash off in loops over the field. Dusk deepens, the martins go, and they are instantly replaced by bats, who flutter in deranged paths like diagrams of the trickiest wingers.

Inside the van, it's the flies who are the supreme athletes, tranquilly settling on nose and nostril, scabbed graze and dirty glasses, sleeping bag and bone-dry towel. They are quite untouchable, and they have no interest at all in the restless breeze outside, so cannot be tricked out of the window.