Cava bien

At this riverbank the sun falls and old men in their dark worn trousers and pastel shirts with the first few buttons open to dark, leathery chests wail to each other. Tired and exhausted horns spread their wings and glide over the river and the whole world feels like a Polaroid of the past.
A young man with a bad case of heartache plays the tambourine and sings sorrow into the cupped ears of the fishermen. The grasses are still and orange is stretched over the sky as though a painter has streaked the canvas and created something accidentally beautiful. The smell of open air and running water and freedom break over the atmosphere and for the first time I run my hand across the top of the tall grass and know that I am not alone.
As the dark overtakes I slowly stand and begin to walk back listening to the beautiful chatter chatter of other languages. As I stumble back into town I pass the entirety of my wealth to the young man and his tambourine and crackly old gramophone and sore, bruised heart. He continues to wail and moan with eyes closed and it fills me with a great hope; the kind of hope that breaks on the shores of beaches or that grows toward the sky in rainforests or that cooks fish to perfection in the tired and warm glow of Sunday afternoon.