The white pico
has appeared
for generations,
ever watchful,
an anxious lover,
hovering
since the ice age.
And now,
the mouth-watering
fragrance
of corn tortillas
& the primordial odor
of ***** chickens
wafts
through the alleyways
of the city
under the mountain.
Somewhere in the distance,
I hear a baby's cry
& the sound of mariachis.