The Bohemian Vigil

The day is drawing to a close. At the edge of the village, where the scrubland basks in the last rays of sunlight, three painted caravans have set their wheels on the hard-packed earth. The chimney of the yellow one is already smoking; the steps of the brown one are extended, people come and go, they live inside. In the center, the campfire has been lit—stones encircle the logs, the copper pot awaits its turn. A young mother kneels, holding her hen to her chest, ready for the evening meal. Further on, the dancer has already begun: the tambourine rises, the guitar answers, the red dress twirls on the pink polka dots. At the foot of the blue caravan, the grandmother gently combs the child's hair. At the other end, under the awning of the brown one, the fortune teller has taken out her crystal ball. The gypsy vigil is settling in—for tonight, the encampment is home.