Mornings, she would wake up to the sounds of the street vendors setting up and the rhythmic swoosh of the women with their tree limb brooms on the sidewalks. There were torrential rains the night before, she got caught out in that oil slick water, they call patter. But it is as if the swoosh cleared away any gray. the sky was still and the lighter side of cobalt. She wondered who were the same people 100 years ago. They brought their wares, they bartered their goods, they bartered their words. She recognized a jewelry vendor, he was a keeper of tradition. He took the strings of the maguey and wound them into maze-earrings, necklaces. This day the cobblestone street was particularly warm, she was thristy for some jamaica. It was curious that she found delight in the swoosh of the brooms. There was pride to the cleansing of their entrance, a cleansing…ready to recieve.
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