Yolanda plotted against the dying sun. She would not be able to finish stringing all the peppers before dark.
A scorpion skittered across the porch, stopped in front of the rocker, fled as she lifted her foot. It had noticed the change in light, the movement of air in the motion.
A safe distance away, the scorpion curled its tail high over its back and sallied past the lesser beetles who watched in admiration from crevices in the walls and floors.
She wiped her hands on her skirt, brought the hem of the bright purple cotton up to her face to mop the perspiration that hung on her skin.
The black spot grew and bounced along the road.