Friday, May 10, 2019



A quiet drive from Granada to Seville.  We reach Estepa, a village existing in defiance of gravity, as if by sheer stubbornness.

                                                                             the brown hills—
                                 white stucco houses anchored
                                 with olive trees

A dazzling light bounces off the white surfaces. No cantina or café visible. Hot cobblestones and cool gardens behind stone walls with iron gates and tinkling fountains. Geraniums as big as bushes, oleander bushes as big as trees. Food smells from an alley, the clink of cutlery and the murmur of muffled voices, but empty streets.  Not even a dog or a cat.

                                   our footsteps seeming louder
                                   the further we walk

A sign:  Mercado. A peek through the open door. Dark and cooler inside.  More like someone's home than a market.  A few chunks of hard dry goat cheese on a counter, bottles of water as warm as the air.

                                                                                  the hot shade—
                                     eating bread and oranges
                                     and red dust 

Bottle Rockets

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