The chicharra’s deathly rattle.
The bottom of my sandal crunches into the dried grass and something scurries quickly through the quiet stillness.
The eyes of all souls are on you; even the rocks keep a watchful eye on a stranger. The heat is muffled by a slight breeze from the east and things are calm and tranquil. The recent floods have opened everything up for a time until the clouds part and all souls retreat into themselves. For now, the bugs remain busy as they fumble inside their leafy castles. The sweetness of the monte is abundant; it drifts in the flavor of the air. I breathe it in and it coats my tongue like sweet sap; the taste of sweet decay. Flavor swells the base of my tongue and my throat is full of rolling mountains. The humming rhythm carries through gusts of wind, through the chicharras death rattle, slowly rolling into the still air where it lays its roots before rising up again in slow and steady waves, trailing off but never ceasing.