Sol, tierra, and stone. Thin, long, thirsty shadows linger around the half-melted white walls of El Matamora. A well in the center of a dusty plaza tiene su boca open with chapped stone lips, pidiendo al cielo por lluvia. Las fantasmas lean on the wall or on the gray, weather-worn wood of what was a porch, floating forever en medio de los ladrillos y pedazos de madera.
