New moon. Waking at 5, I rise for office, mass.
I decide upon a cool morning walk along the Arroyo de Cagancha, which in August is a trickle.
Still, within it stars of light, algae torpidly adrift, insects, and garbage.
Garbage, like light, is afloat wherever water flows. It is hard to know which animal has left this here; there are many who do so in rural places.
I follow the Cagancha, veering south to north and back again.
Four.
A church, a castle, municipal square, tidy houses smelling of detergent and good housekeeping.
Downspouts cut to resemble dragons, griffins, even a fierce poodle. But there is no excess here, not even a drop, so they are as mute as stones. As if on cue, a tiny kind chihuahua lopes out of a darkened hall to kiss me. His nose is wet, his paws are damp. His eyes say look! I am a moist and vital fellow.
A new moon August child! She toddles along in the sidewalk shadows with her grandmother. Her eyes the moon dark of Spain. Her hair is the colour of fire, the colour of summer thinking.
Trees. I feel them thinking. I thank them for their shadows. I touch them. We smile, astonished that we have already forgotten our conversation from yesterday. What was it we said?
I decide upon a cool morning walk along the Arroyo de Cagancha, which in August is a trickle.
Still, within it stars of light, algae torpidly adrift, insects, and garbage.
Garbage, like light, is afloat wherever water flows. It is hard to know which animal has left this here; there are many who do so in rural places.
I follow the Cagancha, veering south to north and back again.
Four.
A church, a castle, municipal square, tidy houses smelling of detergent and good housekeeping.
Downspouts cut to resemble dragons, griffins, even a fierce poodle. But there is no excess here, not even a drop, so they are as mute as stones. As if on cue, a tiny kind chihuahua lopes out of a darkened hall to kiss me. His nose is wet, his paws are damp. His eyes say look! I am a moist and vital fellow.
A new moon August child! She toddles along in the sidewalk shadows with her grandmother. Her eyes the moon dark of Spain. Her hair is the colour of fire, the colour of summer thinking.
Trees. I feel them thinking. I thank them for their shadows. I touch them. We smile, astonished that we have already forgotten our conversation from yesterday. What was it we said?
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