Pofadder is as small as they say. Sandy lots beneath an open sky. Every plot is full of lots of space. Tiny house, big yard, scrawny, wire-thin
fence. Huge fat man that owns the garage-cum-restaurant. Was quite a thing to get
my phone charged. Had to ask him first,
him in his tiny little office, his big bulk.
Predominant color is grades of yellow and brown, splashed with green in
gentle, plant explosions. Sun drenched trees reach out and up, thorny and
twisted.
I count five windmills, four of them working
in the breeze. Very little traffic
through here. Very little.
There are 12 cars in this town. 12 cars, 25 locals, and five windmills. There is a petrol pump, B&B and curio
seller. There's a guy in a blue shirt
carrying a clear plastic bottle, and there are stranger's cars passing through,
passing through. There are 20 homes, seven outbuildings and a church, tall and straight.
The church connects this town to heaven. And the plants and trees rise up lush, virile
and green, bursting with deep water. The
windmills are doing their good work.That's about all I've got to say. I don't know the people and don't want to explore.
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