A droubble by Moonshine
It was merely a game for these small dark-skinned boys.Shooting the sparrows dead with their sling-shots,there before her eyes, parading their catch before her, offering them to her as though they were the King's bounty. This was not what small boys did where she came from. These boys were different. Morocco was different and fascinating for her and her travelling companions from the "civilized" West. A strange culture.
She was sat on a rock beside the road, the sun beating down, the dust whirling as the boys scampered back to their game, shouting and laughing. They were merely sparrows, she thought, these boys: small and skinny, clad in shorts and t-shirts, crew haircuts- no doubt to keep the lice away, with plastic sandals on their feet. Like any street boy in Morocco she had seen on her journey.
The tinkle of a bell attracted their attention. A mountain Berber approached , offering from his goat's bag, a drink of water which he poured into a brass cup that hung at his belt.
The boys seemed familiar with the Berber's appearance as they flocked around him for a sip of the cool, clear melt water from an Atlas' stream.