- after "El Viento Inquieto," Armando Valero No one could deny the wind had been restless, spreading its rumors among all who would listen. It touched everything— cigarette wrappers on the ground, discarded cup sleeves, loose siding. Perhaps its biggest hunger was to itself be touched. But think of every picture you've ever seen where a figure in robes or somber uniform, assigned some official duty, fails to keep his eye on the horizon or his face unmoved— Perhaps a boy in the crowd wanted to tug at the buttons of his coat; perhaps his bladder filled, like a brass goblet the sun suddenly conspired to tip over on the cobblestones. Perhaps the wind brought urgent warning of thousands coming down the avenue, breaching security, battering down the Capitol doors. At any moment, someone would ram a flagpole into his chest, douse people and barricades with gasoline. Anything might happen to be in its path, to which a match could be lit; to see what kind of flame a frenzied wind could fan higher.
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