The sun is so bright that my clothes will be dry in a couple of hours. My neighbour stands in the yard facing my wall and shouts in a shrill voice, Hola, mami!

We’re both doing the same thing. Me, because my dryer is broken and I’m waiting for a replacement to arrive from Bogotá. I’ve got my white Bermuda shorts and light dresses out here. I can see the woman hanging out some dark garments and enormous underpants that must be her husband’s. They’ve been my neighbours since I was a child. If my memory serves, she’s the paña wife of a Raizal taxi driver who went to school with my mother. We’re divided by a wall that some thieves once scaled, a border protecting my childhood bubble.

I should have some breakfast. I started early on the washing; now I’ll make something with the bananas I found downtown after a long search. I paid nearly three times the Mexican price. I sit for a moment to feel the breeze and stare up at the high trail of a northbound transcontinental flight – before I’m distracted by a commotion closer to earth. It’s two ferocious hummingbirds: zoom, yizz! I try to follow their swashbuckling performance on the epic stage of this ravaged terrace. Everything’s covered in mildew, in the greenish-black mould of a damp climate. The concrete wainscot and cornices have yielded to salty residues and the plaster and white paint of the thick balustrade have peeled off completely. They collide again at eye-level: the green-breasted bird charges his opponent, a slightly darker creature as miniscule as he. I hear a tiny thump, a beak trained on the other’s tiny head. Why the hell are you doing this? I think. Hey, pipe down! The darker bird flits out of focus and the stronger one alights on a white post to keep a wary watch, chest heaving. That’s what it’s all about in your world, little one: overpowering something. It’ll give you a sense of security in your brief life. They’re so small, so curious, and look at how fiercely they attack! I thought they might kill each other. So I’ve got a land dispute on my terrace. I look over at one of the scaffolds around a new block of tourist flats. They’re everywhere. I suspect I’ll be seeing more of the winged victor – there he is, unable to budge from his tower, glancing histrionically every which way. Possession isn’t easy, either, the little fellow’s angst and aggression seems to say; he won’t be able to fly in peace, and he won’t stray far, like me in this house. The other bird will have to keep looking. That’s the point of it all: to search, to protect, to cling.