As I sit on my roof on a warm afternoon, I hear:
Birds tweeting contently.
Trucks rumbling by.
Women slapping wet clothes on a rock.
Dogs barking, protecting territory.
A knock on the store, a vender!
Car alarms beeping incessantly.
These are the sounds of Romerillos.
These are the sounds of a small mountain town.
Smoke from a neighbor's fire, burning branches.
Corn tortilla patties being cooked to sell.
Cow manure as the herd passes by.
Fresh pine air that fills up the lungs.
Onions frying in butter.
These are the scents of Romerillos.
These are the scents of a small mountain town.
Clothes hanging out to dry.
Workers planting onions in the field.
Children leaving school with backpacks in hand.
Trees, grass, plants, everywhere green.
A newly-painted house shimmering white in the sun.
Cows grazing lazily in the pasture.
These are the sights of Romerillos.
These are the sights of a small mountain town.
The chicken soup my neighbor made last night.
Morocho with its milky corn texture.
Pancito and coffee for an evening snack.
Fresh claudias and peras from the market.
A sugar cane candy given to me by a friend.
These are the flavors of Romerillos.
These are the flavors of a small mountain town.
The sun on my back.
A warm breeze on my face.
A car tire's vibrations on the road.
The cold cement of my house's walls.
The soft fur of a stray puppy.
The calmness of life.
These are the feelings of Romerillos.
These are the feelings of a small mountain town.
I hear, smell, see, taste, and feel. I am a part of this small mountain town.