1 April 2008. Sun, pearly clouds, sparkle. That kind of morning, if only for an instant. Tim with broom, his off-white loafers, nylon sweater, sweeping the sidewalk in front of beauty parlor. Old words--beauty parlor--as on Oceanside Boulevard, taking Mom in the car "to get her hair done." One of the buoys in an attenuated universe of meaning. Verities of place, time...
Sabina: a figure grasping a tree branch, his feet swing wildly into mid-air, born by the wind (unseen, unheard), Hat flies off into the heavens... A bird in its nest...
"Who knows the meaning of pedregal," as in Juan Charrasqueado? And why should they? A poignant turn in a forgotten song. Chavela's voice, slowing ever so noticeably (this happens even more in the following verse)--a shift in tone, in mood--the world returned to its center...
Creció la milpa con la lluvia en el potrero,
y las palomas van volando al pedregal;
bonitos toros llevan hoy al matadero,
qué buen caballo va montando el caporal.
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