Luneshale Pass lluvia

he’s pulled from deep thought like a man pulled from deep water; shoulders seized by the forceful utterance of a single grunt. 

he wipes the flecks of dirt from his brow and looks over niño; the boy made a better scarecrow than gardener, but so much of their business depends on produce. 

the weeds, they overtake this row— he communicates in their rapid tongue, flinging a clump of rooted plant matter right into niño’s face with a crooked grin. but good growth from the coca this last week. he glances to the gathering of clouds above them. any word from jefe?