Under sprawling branches of their sycamore with its
peeling bark, a dozen birdhouses hung like ornaments,
but served a purpose, shelters for those little tiny finches.
We drank the red wine, rolled the dice, spoke of the future,
planned to travel to places that made him the strongest.
Looking back on that day, I’d have to say it was just right.
The right amount of sunshine, laughter, warm breezes, mixed
with the cup’s rattle and slam on the table with its woven cloth
of green, red and blue threads. A second bottle was opened from
“the cellars of the devil”, and with charango music on a boom box,
he stopped to say once more-These Chileans seem to have the idea,
but I still can’t forgive them for taking away our pathway to the sea.