The knots behind the tapestry

Here at the foot of Table Mountain is a long, wide overhang where you are embraced by rocks. It is a quiet spot with many sounds.

Water drips from the roof of the overhang, a breeze rustles the trees, then drily rubs the long grass stems cascading over a ledge. A man with white plastic sunglasses runs past with thudding feet that fade away. A pigeon shakes its wings and hops into the mossy puddle where the water drips down.

There are no pictures of these sounds, but they are the knots behind the tapestry.

            

The dry gold season

Golden spiderweb

In the long-lasting days of summer, the mountain sucks the last moisture into itself; into the oily buchu leaves, into the wild rosemary, into the pincushions that fray into brittle yellow stalks. Not a sugarbird in sight in the dryness.

The southeaster shakes the dry sutherlandia seedpods that tinkle on the howling low wind. Vygies cling to the rock, flowers faded pink like once bright swimming costumes after a long summer in the sun.

It's the dry gold season.