El Conejo

One of my daily routines is cleaning out the horse stalls. I mucked out the stalls and slid the barn door open. I reached down to pick up the cart filled with the latest batch of equine apples and liquid shavings. At that very moment, I startled a brownish conejo. I think it was a buck – he was about the size of a miniature poodle. We looked at each other and the conejo slowly raised him self up. In a very quiet voice, I said: “¿Pues how’s it hanging wabbit?” Well the homes just looked at me – his eyes dilated and he took off. I laughed – and thought about the countless times in the winter that I find rabbit tracks on the ground. Or those clear winter nights when the snow turns whitish blue and you can see the tracks and look up at the moon and see the conejo – and I’m reminded that – simon, soy en east aztlan – so far from home with a different consciousness about most things – y los bolillos never – well hardly ever – realize that some of us look up at la luna – and we see the conjeno and remember how it got there.

Que es la vida - la vida es sueño – and this incident is emblematic de mi vida loca en East Aztlan – un pocho con cavallos who gets visited by Señor Conejo.