Asturian Aubade

The bus rolls out between the fields, the muddy corrals

that huddle round Candás, the windows slick with a film

of morning breath. A stooping farmhand plants his hoe

by the foot of his hórreo, dwells on a silent prayer to welcome

in the morning. Buildings stretch: sunlight seeks out space,

like rivers through the streets, the hour turns syrupy, as tea

soaks into water, and the lift of shutters grows like applause

to the lug and swell of the encroaching sea. The smell

of bakeries opening: palmeras, casadielles, marañuelas

goldening in knots, windowsills where black pudding purples

in its own broth. White husks of seeds spatter washed pavements

like manna, and the day’s first song rises from the fluty whistle

of the afilador, the chatter of cutlery drawers catching his ears,

his eyes adjusting from the dark, his fingers yet unscathed.