Puling whelps harangue silence's onset,
hailing moonrise on a sultry eve
by the rickety cantina whose barman
fills tumblers with mescal in slapdash fashion
while I, otiose and weary, eye a leaf-shaped
tray of lime wedges from my creaking hammock
under spiny palms bending in the breeze.
From this vantage point I oversee it all,
the quince and cactus farmers
sweating past twilight yonder in the field,
the gaggle of arguing locals,
the lady of the night whose active loins
beckon paramours strange or familiar,
the prurient letch short of coins,
even the menacing thief who perils
wayfarers' fortunes in search of illicit meed.
As the wind soughs through the boughs
I catch a whiff of coconut and avocado,
and listen to the staccato call of gulls
gliding in accord with the retiring tide.
I cannot account for the droll grin
shaping my face; I yawn as I outstretch limbs,
lithe and blithe, sensing the moment's
impressive presence and subdued glory,
thankful for the splendor of a fitting setting.