Ginamants Metaksia leaves her house bright and early, at the crack of dawn. A flock of village swallows, having abandoned their perches in the cypress trees, are swooping overhead, making notches on the canvas of the quickly brightening sky with their sharp-tipped wings. The first dew – dense, life-giving – falls, dispatching the night. A cricket, confused about the hour of the day, breaks into its drawling song: chirr-up, chirr-up, chirr-up.

“Good morning to you too, you poor soul,” Metaksia greets him in her mind. The cricket, as if hearing her thoughts, cuts off and falls silent.

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