chacras de coria Dogs rule the days in this town: lying placid in the morning sun or trailing each other in packs low moans and snuffled howls their discrete communication, outside the fruiteria. They survive on handouts and scraps, the principle of common benevolence extended to these strays. At night, all the children arrive drawn to the lights of the town scions of the winemakers and landowners, released from mansions and gated communities at the heart of the irrigated plains. They have gilt skin and accents from America a pure road lies before them. One boy sits apart, edged out from these evenings of beer and hot dogs the girls lifting hips to the grind of recycled Zeppelin and Stones. He sits under the bloom of a streetlamp, a white bulb simmering in humidity by the closed down pharmacy murmuring the echoed lyrics of sex and infinite youth,
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