Flying through the clouds
In the pristine blue sky
Over Portugal
I see a quaint village

A ranchero named Gonzalo carrying a truckload of fruits and vegetables gave me a ride back into town.

He also offered to escort me to the peleos de gallos. He was round and bloated from a life of too much food and drink and when he spoke he had the belabored breath of a dying heart. He was a roosterman, an aficionado of the ancient sport, who owned mas o menos cincuenta gallos.