La Llorona weeps in the night, the darkness wrapped around her like a shawl.

”¡Ai, hijos mios!”

I hear her through the open window, grief braided in the wind. Her hair is long and black. I cannot tell where she ends and the night begins. Angry eyes glint fire, outshine the impassive moon.

”¡Mijo! ¡Mijas!

”¿Donde estan?”

I cannot comfort her. Her desolation is seamless, heir to a thousand generations of loss. She is as remote as onyx. Her eyes close slowly, open again, look away. I leave the window. I go back to bed.

1. 
   Lisa Thompson 2004 05 06 at 11:05:33 am

   Beautiful, Chris. It’s good to hear your “voice”. How are you? Still have an old kayak that yearns for the waters of Tomales Bay?