Rambling spain

A line of ants passed me by unheeded by my presence as the sweat from my brow dripped upon their never ending toil. I however stood bent over fascinated at their maneuvers. My curiosity sated i passed on by along the deserted dust path with nothing but nick cave in my ear and the constant flutter of the hares darting in to multicolored half barren bushes as i approach. The smell of orange lingers on the air and i wonder are they hares or rabbits. Perhaps a bit of both. Crossbreeding and both species side by side. And i stroll on. The girl in the too tight leggings says hola. I find it hard to know where to look for her top is made for someone less fond of food as well. The auld lads all think im spanish i think. They give me the auld fella nods and the beunz diaz and i return the favour. Nick is hammering on about the big red hand and in the cool of the tunnel i feel shade and read the graffiti in illegible fluorescent shades of pink and blue and greens and i walk on somewhat more educated. The dog in need of anger management classes growls from behind an iron fence, his chain restricting him enough to put the hibbey gibbeys in me as to why he needs a chaining as well as a fencing. I tend towards the other half of the path while the tshirt is drowned in my hand and the heat on my skin reminds me of my bloodline which originated in this land where i feel so much at home. I bear their colour and their ease of pace and inside a fury made beautiful by its self containment within the bounds of self contentment.

I should have brought water but i feel strong. I have the goat in me to keep going, the mountain goat blood of my mothers side, the lack of equilibrium in my mental disposition acquried from the same source. The words and love of same dropped directly from the branches of my fathers orchard.

The point I’m aiming for is farther than it appears but it wont defeat me. The man with the moped tied with two dogs in need of walking passes me by and i smile. He raise his hand in salute and i do the same reflected in the mirror of his overladen motorised biwheel vehicle. A model long gone out of production yet still it plods along uncaring of its generational positioning.

I touch the wall and stop. Wild trees and a vslley to a near dry river. A long distance from the supposed catch of the so called fishing village yet still its holds the beauty of its functional claim. The trees bend with the multicolored flowered bushes to form the magnificane of this piece of the world where the ink traces the paper of the note book which was selected for me by the small hands i have held since her and his birth.

I smile and turn to return to the world beyond the wild of this moment

(C) frankie mcgivney in spain

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