Bob Dylan Returns to Guadalajara
Almost palpable the stars flung out above the plaza. Neighbors mingle in the warm night as if after Sunday Mass. Odors of tortillas and roasting pollo sweeten the wild rush of roses. Indian girls sell colored Chiclets to the accompaniment of shopkeeper's brooms.
The moon is this side of full as cicadas ratchet their waiting song and Inca doves flash gold among the fountains. Military police walk among us: young, bashful and delicate as the girls they flirt with. A quarter mile long our line needs no watching. We watch them, amused. And the crowd is a concert moving in a gentle flow towards Las Cabanas.
Somewhere there's a tormenta in the desert: tanks lie bruised upon the sand; days there darker than any nights we see here. And to the North always the fretful whirl of the competitive edge sharpening against the contours of the land.
Inside we listen as la respuesta winds down the night. Sad harmonica, lonely guitar, the rasping words of a poet grown old in peace, coming home to Mexico. The answer, my friend, and we sing along as if we were young again, as if we would stay that way forever: The answer is blowin' in the wind.
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