Dancing reflections of leaves on grass welcomed me as I tiptoed to my haven. I wiped a stray bead of sweat on my nose — the wind is too soft to take it away. More than ten minutes have passed and several fruits (all purposefully and with a thud)have already fallen while I sat there. They are yellow, sweet, and heart shaped. A swarm of fruit flies attacked the yellowest, ripest one, the one that fell near the concrete path that led to the chapel. It fell on some sharp rocks, and it became heavily scarred. I looked around and saw a lonely mango, unaffected by insects, for it landed cozily on a bed of dry leaves that have been prepared for burning. I stood up and cradled it in my hands. It seemed to beat.