Saturday, June 22, 2013

El Matador (originally written on Feb 10, 2010)


The eyes meeting from 20 feet away and the wind waiting for some one to move. The last of the tiny dust swirl settles down in its seat to watch.

I peer from under the shade of my montera. A sharp blade hidden in the red mutela's folds. An impatient hoof kicks up enough dust betraying the animal's intention.

Between us is the decision.To play, fight, flirt, or to retrace a few steps.
Between us is the distance. To cover on quick feet or to measure and stay vigil.

But first blood has already been drawn.Regardless of the spectators, the "tanda" begins. The game is on.

There is no hunter.No hunted. The roles aren't defined.

I flourish the cape and meet the beast half way through..... 

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