4 March 3008. Later morning, sun. Lurching FedEx truck, white plus emblems, squeezed onto 7-eleven slot. An older person, gray, worn gold wedding band, seated at window, leaning towards monitor as she types. Pleasant tapping sounds. Glasses tilted forward on the bridge of her nose, intent, pausing to scratch her head for a moment. Silently sighing.
Susurrar, suspiro. Lo que se oye casi sin pensar-- algo del pasado, de los días de ayer. Un barco en el río, navigando, donde hay que nadar. "Pero no tenemos substantivo." Substantivo, de que no hay en el río, donde todo se mueve. Todo se mueve. "La sombra de un caballo..."
(para Berta)
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