The road was all mud she slipped with the drizzle and you couldn't tell the color she wore but her big awed eyes colored the land in all colors making her lose breath gazing at every little thing till over the noise of lightning boomed her father's voice be fast girl before the rain is harder when she would run for his hand and slip again and again counting fun at every fall her eyes a glowing island from the mud scarred face.
Once in the market the man gave her a good wash little knowing she was drenched with all the dreams eyes could ever see.
Old man with his Atacama tongue dusting off stories of his youth forty-nine knock outs he spattered out heavy weight champion travelin' the world stories of tribes auctioning off slaves that they couldn't sell that became that nights meal pieces in a stew how it could make a man cry and cry oiling up trees so the lions slide right off tent births and baseball cards a preacher neighbor who beat a woman then had his teeth knock out by the holy word then points out his bird houses only to dive deep into something else
"Old man" says I, "I have to return to work but next time I will save your stop for last. There's an oasis in that head of yours and I tend to bask in it."