In the time between and the time after 
the air moved like a Pampero, cold breath 
covering everything. We shortened sails.  
Readied for whatever futures might blow in.

First were the mosquitos, those small 
machines of fury clouding our heads.  No 
room free of them.  Then, 

the wasps came: war of sickle and sting.
We took shelter below deck, but couldn’t parry
their assault. Pale moon gasping on water.

That’s why, when the red Argentinian 
bird appeared, no one had words to speak 
relief, or there must be land close by, or 

after the squall opens the powdery 
resolution of the stars.