- Vol. 04
- Chapter 11
On a cold night like tonight my sombrero fits my mood— my red wrap-around hides my grimace.
I sit below the pampas freezing, huddled, teeth chattering.
In South America there is no word for the homeless.
We live half inside half out— residents of the desert.
We are born to hunt with horses, live and breathe the night— every little mosquito bite
Brightens the smile of my wild grin.