Ayla Monroe

A single strand of green scallion top loops through the wire handle of the stainless steel broth strainer.

The eastern horizon glows with a thin thread of silver just before the sun clears the top of the steep ridge.

I am learning the quiet endurance of highland timber structures as they weather decades of seasonal rains and mountain winds.

The wet pavement mirrors the heavy, brushed-stone surface of a humid, overcast evening.

The tropical breeze sweeps dry straw across the courtyard floor and against the low wooden benches.

We are night-shift broth tenders watching the rolling flames under the quiet shelter of the kitchen roof.

The morning light glows through the thickening mist of the waking city street.

A rusted iron meat hook hangs from a high wire, left over from the morning butchering delivery at the market edge.

The dark wooden wharf winds smoothly past closed bait lockers toward the open mooring slips of the inner basin.

The courtyard drainage channel chatters happily as it channels washwater away toward the garden irrigation ditches.