at play

tall trees filter the afternoon sun warming some and shadowing others. we sit in a circle with the multicolored park in front, the garden to the right and the fish pond behind. a little bit farther down, we would be on pancho's grave, dug a week ago for the old horse who fell one day and couldn't get back up.

a la zaptilla por de atras
tris tras
ni la ves ni la veràs
tris tras

that is what we sing as one student encircles us with shoe in hand ready to leave it behind another who will then run trying to catch the first. then we sing:

raton que pìa al gato
raton que te va a pìar
si no te pìa esta noche
mañana te piarà

the older students, in oversized blue denim shirts weave through the swings and around us. they carry old rice bags over their shoulders filled with chicken dung. the muddy substance trickles out of the pourous bags as they scurry from chicken coup to garden and back again to refill. some stop to watch the little ones light with song in the chase of children. some sing along.

blanca, tall and thin, almost a woman with a timid elegance stands to run behind elio. the yellow rays softly illuminate her smile and her care to stand with a straight skirt. i see her framed in innocence, not that of a child to be protected, but that of a young woman who has been protected too much. like the others, her eyes look out wondering, yet they look up and then down. she smiles, then quickly covers it with her hand.

even now as she runs around the circle she bends low at the shoulders. maybe she runs that way; maybe she is trying to not seem so big amongst the first graders. she is, older then most of the students in blue. she has come to us only this year and at any moment i sense her father might call her home to marry.

blanca, despite her longer legs doesn't reach elio before he slides safely into her position in the circle. it is her turn to walk and choose some one. she encircles us twice fidgiting with the shoe in hand. she hides her giggle and sets the shoe behind edwin, the little boy who in class nudges her arm, looks at her paper, takes her eraser, pulls her hair. she chooses him to chase her, and we sing:

raton que pìa al gato
raton que te va a pìar
si no te pìa esta noche
mañana te piarà