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The mirror of distance Glancing in the window, a small glimmer is observed. Dangling in your hair, you see this and put the idea aside. "It's nothing," you tell yourself. Go about your morning, pretending it was just a reflection of light. Then, in the mirror, the negligible white shape appears winking at you from the reflection. Again, you remind yourself, "Surely, it's the angle of light on the mirror." Then a third time, you finally are face-to-face with the glint, and it is unmistakable--...

The mirror of distance Glancing in the window, a small white flint is observed. Dangling in your hair, you see this and put the idea aside. "It's nothing," you tell yourself. Go about your morning, pretending it was just a reflection of light. Then, in the mirror, it appears, winking at you from the reflection. Again, you remind yourself, "Surely, it's the angle of light on the mirror." Then a third time, you finally are face-to-face with the glint, and it is unmistakable--peering at you. Low...

The mirror of distance Glancing in the window, a small white flint is observed. Dangling in your hair, you see this and put the idea aside. "It's nothing," you tell yourself. Go about your morning, pretending it was just a reflection of light. Then, in the mirror, it appears, winking at you from the reflection. Again, you remind yourself, "Surely, it's the angle of light on the mirror." Then a third time, you finally are face-to-face with the glint, and it is unmistakable--peering at you. Low...

The mirror of distance Glancing in the window, a small white flint is observed. Dangling in your hair, you see this and put the idea aside. "It's nothing," you tell yourself. Go about your morning, pretending it was just a reflection of light. Then, in the mirror, it appears, winking at you from the reflection. Again, you remind yourself, "Surely, it's the angle of light on the mirror." Then a third time, you finally are face-to-face with the glint, and it is unmistakeable--peering at you. Lo...

A bus, going to the inner city. A barrio and a ghetto. The houses are decrepid and sullen. The children aren't naive. Waving their arms, flailing their power. Fires are on the sidewalks. An open field with dried tired reeds. Lost, within this frenzy. A sad friendly face, greets with understanding. The knowing is in his eyes-- kindness, quiet sorrow. Strangers fumble with him to communicate, verbs following nouns. Laughing, he nods his understanding and points, "Vaya derecho." Waving hands as ...