Clothes hanging on the wire.

The fluttering rhythm of clothes hanging on a wire makes me lose sense of time. I've seen this somewhere before in my past. Somewhere long ago there were journeys made to remote locations where the winds were strong. I once had lived in the heart of the West bank not far from a small village where their clothes would always be hanging. There was always the smell of dust, and diesel in the air. Stray dogs, skinny to the bone would gather in dark corners, their eyes would reflect the blinding light of a lone car coming their way. And now here sitting on a one track tram car that takes me into the heart of this land, I see the clothes fluttering in the wind, peacefully waiting for the hand of an old women to fold them into their place.