2 January 2008. Glassy green pool, wobbly black lines, morning shimmer. A few veterans plow back and forth, the boustrophonic principle in action, herdsmen of old, a white ox, a pair of lambs...
Las cosas criollas. Santefesinos y los de Tucumán. La familia Ferreira, iron mongers, perhaps--la Giudecca--and their daughter, Nélida, "la mas bella en la provincia." First letter arrives: a search party for a downed plane, brother Raúl wandering in the mountains, the altiplano, makes his way to the Chilean side. "It's hard for me to explain about my being dead..."
Las cosas criollas. Expanse of the pampa, reaches of dry grass into an even drier distance. Silencio. A streambed through local stone--its own particular feel, also dry--narrow run of cobalt, out of those same hills...
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