Published in The Caribbean Writer Volume 29.
Tonio, old Puerto Rican fisherman, says, “I smell rain,” stops in his garden tracks, points a cracked finger toward the blue humid sky, then cocks his head and eye to the inner ear and bids me, listen
Tonio, old Puerto Rican fisherman, says, “I smell rain,” stops in his garden tracks, points a cracked finger toward the blue humid sky, then cocks his head and eye to the inner ear and bids me, listen
to the Bananaquit’s song, tiny yellow-bellied bird, its quippering pitch and flittering wings above my head, halo etched in memory, now inside my body, St. Croix, island, a silent soliloquy, rooting me in
flamboyant trees, great canopies just beginning to bloom, bright red in the heat along with June mangos.
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