The churchbells in Malé are ringing, possibly ushering out

the last of the funeral goers I passed on my way to these foothills. From here I can see the stone bell tower and the Dolomite-flanked park where a girl cried, her dress snagged in the spokes of her bike. The beetles in these hills

wear painted masks and move like prayers in every direction. The bells seem intent on some kind of valediction. I have no names for the wildflowers here. Their perfume is like wood. No one is expecting me home.