My Month in Mexico

You notice the birds. Not the gentle warbling of Northern latitudes, but sharp tropical cries from the palm trees. You see gulls overhead, scavenging.

You notice the dogs bark. They don't stop barking. Chained up with nothing to do, they bark at passerby, bark at the birds, bark at nothing in particular. Some roam the streets, wary of strangers.

You notice criers. Zeta, zeta, zeta gas. El agua. Panes y dulces. Trucks with speakers and goods for sale.

You notice motors. Buses packed to the brim, motorcycles weaving through traffic up and down Francisco Medina Ascencio, Prisciliano Sanchez. You feel the heat rising from the pavement.

You notice music. The music of your youth, perhaps. That familiar polka rhythm traveling down the beach.

You notice the sand in your huaraches. The waves rolling in front of you. And as the sun sets, Venus and the Moon in syzygy.