My town, Sabana Grande,
sits at the feet of the Cordillera Central.
It thrives in the shadows of circling vultures,
where mountains reach gently into the sky
and valleys open to receive the breath of morning,
cradling the town as rain threads
through the trembling leaves of mango trees.
At its heart, the town holds stories—
told in the language of church bells and breezes,
in the smell of coffee drifting
from open doors at dawn—
a breath from the balconies,
slipping softly into the nostrils
of those who pass by.