17 July 2008. Soft gray sky, black crow careens past blank stucco wall, feathers spread wide, distinct... Truck rumble--flash of the number two train--muffled squeal on downhill brakes... Cast-iron pillars with rivets the size of steel apricots, a vertical dotting that stitches the whole business into one, massive hidden cave-built world... As opposed to mild Solano, acorn gatherers, reed baskets, finely woven grasses--a culture of patience, more than anything, where the cycles of fog and sun and rain bring almost all...
Boleadoras, stones of a certain weight, wrapped in leather, seams stitched by hand. The smell of horses--pasture--"grasses eaten by cattle," from the old French. See "pastor," 1242--a shepherd. Also, "spiritual guide, "shepherd of souls." "To lead to pasture..."
Quién te llamó pasto verde fresquita
tal vez tu aroma sintió,
poema de los desiertos
versos de un coplero que pasó...de un coplero que pasó...
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