It’s one a.m. and I’m still up. I should have gone to bed a few hours ago, but my best brain activity seems to kick in long after sunset, long after phones have stopped ringing and no one is apt to come to the door. In the wee hours of darkness there is a tremendous long stretch of solitude that lends itself to writing. I can’t say what I look like the next day or what time I’ll want to roll out of bed, and I know that in about three weeks, I’ll have to stop all of this staying up until the roosters crow. I’ll be back at my day job, but in the meantime, I write at night, just because….

When Senor Cortez cried

beneath the tree, wept

for greedy soldiers

whose stolen gold sank

into brackish waters;

what destiny brought

him back upon us

to kill with disease,

with hunger and canons

except the fate that brought

Mexico to these far hills

where she learned to sing

Irish ballads.