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You are here: Home / Nonfiction / Uruguay Sojourns
Uruguay Sojourns

Nonfiction

Uruguay Sojourns

In the goldening late afternoon sun, screeching green loros fly from tree to eucalyptus tree. A 
boy rides a white horse bareback down a dirt street.

·

Now cricket song swells in the rose-brushed twilight reflected upon the steady river. There 
chiquilines (children) skins sun-toasted, still play in the waters.

.

The near-full moon whitens the dense brush. Frogs have joined that grillo chorus.

.

In the midst of this starry night, I hear the sputtering hum, the wheezing horn, the distant rumble 
of freight trains crossing the half-mile-long bridge, rusted trusses vibrating & wood ties clunking 
… coming nearer … I struggle against surfacing from dreams to see the passing chains of cars.

.

I awaken amid the shreds of last night’s dreams.

.

Fuchsia-mango sun rises above timbered plains, above the river. A garza negra glides low, 
landing upon its rippled surface. The rattle of harness & cart, the splash of water as a man reins 
his horse across to the other shore.

.

I enter this shallow río, pebbles crunching beneath my feet & sink into its coolness on a summer 
day. & I release myself, floating downstream, allowing it to take me wherever it be … 
… past the sandbar beach, beneath the shade of trees overhanging this swift current …

.

The clouds had gathered steel-blue all afternoon. Then the wind, the far-off thunder, the wind … 
I tie down the tarp just as the first large drops fall & seek refuge, the sides of my tent bowing, 
rain pelting overhead. I hear the distant rumble of the seven-thirty commuter crossing that 
bridge, nearing our camp, thundering over steel & wood.

.

The wind has silenced, the thunder now far off to the east. Leaves still shed pooled rain. A 
hummingbird darts about a eucalyptus, the mosquitos return. & the dusk song of loros begins. 
Down on a sandbar, a dog & its children stroll, leaving prints behind.

.

I wander down to the river’s edge where swimming is forbidden, stepping through the high wet 
grass. & there at the foot of one bridge legging is a fortification from some war or another, its 
concrete walls blackened & tilted with the years, gunsights staring blindly across to the other 
bank.

.

The rumble, vibration, clunk of the nine-fifteen. Lightning bugs sketch dashes on this eventide 
silenced by the cricket serenade. Someone sings along to his radio. Flames leap from parillas, 
sparks climbing into the dark. Families huddle downwind from smoke fires scented with grass & 
eucalyptus, shredded sycamore bark curling. & to the southwest, lightning sketches dashes 
across the sky.

.

Full moon veiled by gauzy clouds. Still the grillos trill & a sudden chuckle of a bird. The quiet 
river reflects the night.

.

I awaken before dawn to break camp. Some have already left on that first train to the city, 
wheezing horn, slow rumble, before crossing the bridge. Roosters crow in the village, a few 
crickets yet rasp. & morning twilight becomes streaked golden-orange & magenta through 
broken clouds.

.

As the day brightens, bird ballads echo among the trees.

.

Bit by bit, my knapsack Rocinante is packed & tied down. A man passes from site to site, bell 
whispering, pushing a blue motorbike. He offers me homemade sausage & cheese. I stow my 
purchase before heading out to another town swathed in the clouds of this aging morn.

Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose works appear in over 400 journals on six continents, and 23 collections of poetry – including Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022) and the upcoming In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023). She also authors travel narratives, articles, and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth.

Featured Artwork:

BOVINE EXPLORER

Jeff Mann lives in Fort Erie Ontario, Canada across the river from Buffalo. After 28 years in Maine as a production potter and a sculptor, Jeff has been steadily moving West, first to upstate New York then Kingston, Ontario and now to the Niagara River. Somewhere along the way, he discovered car parts and it’s been all downhill from there. Strongest influences: Hundertwasser, Schiele, this amazing planet.

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