For Muma and me,
this is our day to roll dough
into loaves
that will settle in the shade of our farm’s leafiest tree,
before baking in covered clay.
Muma shows me the right way
for pressing the heel of my hand
to flatten the supple mounds.
“Do it with your whole soul,”
she instructs. “Bread is best
when prepared from a woman’s
deepest self.”
Muma has given Leila a clump of dough.
My sister hums, pats, plays with her soft ball.
Morning’s birds glide on the horizon.
Muma joins Leila’s humming.
Me, too.
I like this time together.
In a quick gust, the wind picks up,
then thrusts forward.
Another haboob?
So soon?