[Photo: Dawn in the Paraguayan countryside.]
When the sun bakes the Asuncion streets, shadows become part of a necessary equation, a currency, a way to get from one side of town to the other.
At the soccer game last night, the beer was ice cold, the lomitos fresh, the bird under the lights confused.
A friend points out bullet holes on a light post downtown. Some of them are from civil wars decades ago, some from successful and unsuccessful coups, police crackdowns. The size of the hole, the angle of the ricochet mark, all tell of an escape, a death, one more dictator in the palace by the river.
And the ancient buses rumble past like monsters, urban-bound dragons in the wrong century.