Sunrise, illuminating my thin tent, transforms it from an old refuse bag of brown plastic to a strange womblike balloon. True, it remains a wretched tent, stained, raggedy, and sagging, yet I find I have grown fond of it, for it is home. Each day I sweep out the heavy dust that comes creeping, blowing, seeping from the bottomless supply of dry dung in the yard. One understands better the local indifference to cleanliness when one is shrouded with dust within moments of each washing: I am grained with filth.
