Analect 2.337x

2 September 2008. Golden morning, hint of fall--Indian summer, rather, with blue skies in all directions. Albany High kids already returning, half-grown gulls with puffy gray plumage, nothing fits quite right. Girl with dark hair hopping out of car on one foot, loaded with books, Sierra pack, swinging door shut with free hand while nudging an inadvertent goodbye in the direction of her mom, the driver, whose hands grip the wheel like out of Le Mans, or Bakersfield, maybe, an all-night truckstop on Highway 99--as the big metallic Honda lurches off down the street...

Payador. Where story becomes song. "Re menor," the key of D minor, different somehow in those southern climes--la llanura--the untouched plains, an endless expanse of open land, incommensurate--

Cómo no he de llorar yo
sí me quitas lo que es mío...