3 February 2009. Sun over low roofs, avenue sounds. Doritos van charging up the hill... Three gulls alert on 7-eleven eve... Everywhere...
Re-reading Mansilla, beyond Aillancó-una parada en route to Leubucó, the place where the horses were stolen. Si perdieron unos caballos? Always the same question--befitting these plains, where a horse is a ship, an eagle, a saving grace. Cloud of darkening gray-brown dust on the horizon, whipping this way and that, now larger, now smaller, re-emerging. The scout: Indios, mi colonel...boleando, guanaco...
"Si no ha perdido caballos..."
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