Windy and Winding
There is no clear separation
Between the sky and the sea,
Only a mystical white mist,
A glow made of afterlife scenes
From the films that premiered
On lazy summer nights.
We dolly-zoom along Andros’
Windy winding uphill roads—
One and a half lanes wide.
The closer we get
To the other side of the ravine,
The farther it seems to be,
And the more expansive
Andros becomes.
The magic of the islands
On this side of the world
Lies in the contrast between
The golden brown scoops of land
Submerged in the Aegean’s blue.
Andros Island · July 6, 2026
Iphigenia makes breakfast
We carry the foldable table outside
Under the oldest tree in the yard.
On the orange-and-yellow plaid tablecloth,
She places two bowls of chopped vanillies
Mixed into yogurt and chocolate granola,
And a plate of rusks topped with her favorite
Cottage cheese, olive oil,
And the cucumbers she had been grating
While I did some work on my laptop.
I feel two pats on my back
And I look towards her
Waiting for her words,
Only to realize, it was not her
But the cushion behind me,
Blown towards me by the northern winds,
As if to remind me to sit back
And look at the view of the mountains
And the sea ahead.
Good morning to you, too, Andros.
Andros Island · July 7, 2026
Only the Internet
We come home and look up at the most stars I have seen in years. We see Ursa Major, which we agree is Greece’s version of Orion—a staple constellation of Philippine night skies. There is a thin white line in the sky, seemingly connecting a group of stars. I suspend disbelief: Is this how our ancestors invented constellations? Perhaps the lines that connect the stars are actually visible under certain light conditions? But it moves; is a comet! For a few moments, we believe it is. But without a round head and its signature icy tail? The evidence is inconclusive. Only the Internet can help us now. A quick Google search reveals, it is a train of Starlink satellites, moving through space—what a remarkably underwhelming discovery. Only the Internet.
Andros Island · July 8, 2026
Living Things
The neighbor’s donkey yells a perfect mi note.
Iphigenia thinks it sounds stupidly human-like.
Lizards play catch at the edge of the yard.
Bees hover over our sunscreen-covered skin
Cicadas vibrate louder the closer I listen in.
The rooster weather vane on the neighbor’s roof
Points south, but I am told it may just be rusty
And stuck; the winds come from all directions.
They blow between the leaves and
The sticky white berries hanging above us.
I hope they don’t fall on my head*
*After a taste-test on our last day,
I now hope they had fallen onto my plate.
Andros Island · July 9, 2026
Ragnar barks
At passersby,
At cars driving along Platonos Street,
At other dogs outside of their homes,
At humans when standing up straight,
At us, upon our arrival from the airport,
And again, every time we leave the house,
When we hang out in the kitchen,
When I stretch my hands out at breakfast,
When I do not offer him any food,
When I attempt to play darts,
When the humans hug one another,
When we laugh as a group,
When we are in a heated discussion,
When we sing together,
When we dance together,
Even louder when we sing and dance together.
It is becoming clear to me:
Ragnar barks when humans do human things
That he cannot do himself.
He barks to take part in our conversations.
In a few days, I will leave Rafina
To fly off to other places in this world
Missing a Ragnar,
And I look forward to his bark goodbye.
Rafina, Attica · July 21, 2026