I won’t hear a single coquí tonight, nor a tireless wind rustling the long, rigid leaves of palm trees. I won’t lay and listen to a blue green sea roll across the shore like hands reaching for whatever they can grab, or, at times, go clapping against brown rocky crags that bubble up from its own belly.
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No, tonight, I’ll be back in my own bed, hearing motorcyclists rev their engines, bums yelling curse words at one another from different sides of the street, tires scrubbing back and forth against broken black pavement, faint reminiscences of last night’s soundscape, a few tears dripping from my changed eyes onto a worn white pillow.
