Perhaps in answer, something falls on his head, tapping him square on the brow and sticking on his lip like a dry, dusty raindrop.
He picks at his mouth, swirling his tongue around himself; the thing is warm from the sun, and slightly hairy. His tongue slips closer to the object. But it won’t…quite…
His tongue slobbers away from the object, and it jumps down his throat.
He opens his mouth to the sky, then bends over the grass, trying to cough with his whole body because the ordeal is making his throat rasp with such a very large itch he may threaten it with tea later.
But then, two more of the little things fall down, riding the straight and narrow all the way to his belly, just like that first enterprising traveller.
“Koff. They feel like… they feel like seeds,” he chokes, picking up one of the things from the ground; evidently there was a rain of them while he was busy.
The one on his finger sticks, like the others, and, his throat free of such clinginess for the moment, he looks down at the occupation of his fingertip, his wide, delighted eyes casting a quasi-shade for the little thing.
Small, and hard, and covered in little stickers, as though a porcupine used curling hair gel, then made love with a dried up grey watermelon and had several thousand children; one of whom was in his hand, being stared at by his drippy, red-rimmed, irritated eyes and somewhat itchy chin.