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68 Getting Away We sidewind inside clouds along ridgelines dividing waters that shed east from waters that shed west— el páramo, which I know only from Pedro, the Páramo from Comala, hometown so hot dead folks arriving in Hell go back to get their blankets. In the Talamancas, rufousnaped sparrows shove mashed-up worms beak to beak. We glide down, down, toward the Tárcoles River, where twenty crocs per kilometer make their ancient living except here, at the bridge, where dozens of huge ones snap and shove, chomp down junk that people throw. Around the bend, spoonbills, rosy and plump, strain rivermuck. By treadless tires wood storks hunker, shoulders hunched. 69 Quick plovers and stilts pace cuneiform messages. Green herons call, call downriver, then follow their voices. Lone royal egret paces very near two half-submerged relics plastered in mud. They’re sharp toothed, zap fast, fuerte. But she can lift up out of silt and soar. ...

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