ABSTRACT
With the first crowing of the old rooster that slept high in the thorny lime tree in his backyard, Striker! opened his eyes. Through the bare window space of his mud-and-wattle ajoupa, the fullmoon beamed its pale yellow gaze on him. A soft breeze came seeking past his face and left the single space of the room, still bearing all its comfort. Striker!, smooth and silent over the yard’s clean-swept dirt, had quicked over to see the snake gradually disappearing into a hole under the buttress roots of the old tree: a big macawoeul, fat around as Striker!’s lithe waist, and two, three times long as him. Thinking bitterness, and with special needs in mind, Striker! headed for another squatter’s claim a half mile past the sidetrack to the woman’s place.
