magical realism

Summer beckons. The blossom sheds purple scent on the people below, who stumble through the day confused by the abundance of light.

Beneath the trees, a child counts puppies only she sees. 'Hurry up querida,' calls her mother. The child laughs in delight, 'Cinco perritos! 5 puppies!' and runs on home.

At Primera Junta, outside the station, a man weaves through afternoon traffic. A black cat sits on his neck. They cycle past the bus, but only one passenger notices.

A group of boys call out to each other, as oblivious to the crowds as the crowds are to them. They are the ones who turn cardboard into bread.

The woman who sits on the pavement where the bus stops, is selling soft lemons and clasps of herbs. She bends her head to listen to the murmur of the crowd.

The walls speak words that the crowd can only hum: 'Yesterday we remember, today brings fresh trouble, and tomorrow there will be more.'

At the park, one pool is blue but dry. The other is overflowing with brown water and plastic bottle boats. A woman searches for words in her puzzle book.

Stopping off at the heladería on their way home, two friends deliberate. The owner looks at the girl, then scopes pale orange ice from a silver drum. He offers her a taste. 'Maracuyá!' she gasps, 'How did you know?'

Signs and portents, prophets and wise ones. The invisible made visible to those who look, who listen, who believe.

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Still thinking about Luke 13: 6-9

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