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He lived in a small clay hut. The floor was smooth ground, was hard dry mud trod and trod again by feet coming, going, coming, going, and sometimes staying. His bed was a yellow and green mat of woven grass, still fresh and with a scent of field. It was light, and easy to roll up to stow away, or to carry. Although it was thin he slept well on it and he did not wake sore. This morning he felt well rested and refreshed, if somewhat dislocated.

It was the sun that woke him, this new sun. This white, somewhat disorienting sun. This bright sun. The low half circle that was the hut’s opening faced its rising above the mountain ridge on the far side of the valley below. As it climbed, it lit the sky above him, touched the mountain behind him, and then entered his hut and his eyes through shut lids. This is what woke him. And then he knew morning again.

The end of another darkness, of another inactivity so deep he could not remember doing this nothing. He welcomed this new sun, this warm sun, white and closer.

He crawled on knees and hands through the opening and out into the pleasant morning air. He was tall and slender. He was black skinned and strong. He stood up and it felt good to stretch arms and legs and lungs.

It was good here, wherever here was. Under this closer sun.

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