slum native persimmon It was like this: Back door entrance, early morning sun flecks resting on wet wood platform, from inside her shack I see Yaa's arm bare and barely extend past the door frame, bowl in hand. An elegant flick of her wrinkled wrist and bowl dips into barrel, fills with rainwater, arm dissapears splash on resting flecks repeat, repeat 070204 what's it to you? who go blather from