trawhile

Readerly present in Gambia through Cees NooteBoom's 'Lady Wright and Sir Jawara: A Boat trip up the Gambia' in his book Nomad's Hotel, I was wondering as a traveller having broken into the foreign land if we ever stop and ask how the actual was different from our expectation.
I had a route in my mind, but was not sure if there was a path to walk. While not spilling coffee walking is still something that I have to master, with 21 sec to cross half the road, I gave myself the liberty to watch a nest in a tall bare palo verde at the corner. A yellow nest made from dry grass. What would an African weaver think looking at this which is so different from its green house. The medicinal smell of weeds being sterilised, reminiscent of the farmers spraying their crops with pesticides, I would only envy spraying colors part of the job.
The path ahead of me is about to vanish. Ahead a saguaro with its two arms on the right side as an upright matador about to start the bull fight. On the right, a grey wall cuts off the plaza that I know my way around. I wont be far from where I should be, I can always retrace. I had a doubt if there was a way out, but the whole point of the walk was to find what was ahead. looking at the tree accesible to the second floor, I already imagined staying there, but soon realised it not possible as it is for senior living.
As I was taking a left turn, yellow reflective signs turned around the corner. A skinny mocking bird on what seemed the size of a black trash can. The neighborhood had me in its thrall again with me living around. Reaching the corner with its name and purple flowers.
The sight of a bus stop brightened me with the prospects of a trash can to get rid of the long empty cup. Only the soon to be moved stop had a make shift plastic trash bag- serves the purpose.
I was wishing on the pavement. As a field came into sight, the path ended. A red tailed hawk was just displaced from one wooden pole to another by another. Discontent with the arrangement, the ouster approached the next pole like there was a kho kho game on. The first hawk only complied, but not before taking a float in the wind. A tree with many branches announced the presence of the noisy birds. I waited to see the occupants. soon they flew onto the wire on the right. Mourning Doves.
When the hawks flew out of sight, I was still on an unpaved path, walking like my shoes were acupunctured with thorns of Puncturevine. Like a stork, on my left leg, I tried picking the thorns out of my right shoe. Taking turns and balancing. After which my eyes skimmed the tiny rocket weed and another braodleaf weed on the ground. Soon on the path, predictability returns.