Silence. Strange in Mexico.
Lie here some moments and revel in it. Like an ashram in Mumbai. No trains, no dogs, no chickens, no burros, no Catholic church bells from down on the Plaza, nada.
It is a little early for roosters, but trucks are persistent. The highway from Pátzcuaro to Morelia skirts our barrio, curving up and around a hill not far behind the Ranchito.
The truck brakes often make a scandal in the night as they maneuver the bend. Luckily, the road is far enough back not to present a real problem. But you can hear it. But not right now. And there is the occasional romantic rumble of the night train.
A rich aural environment. Usually.
But now, a odd calm covers our land, and most are asleep, missing it.
A few are in nightmares. If someone nudges them, they will awaken into this silent dream of ours. And their hearts will settle.
And in an instant, it rains, a muted downpour. No thunder, no lightning, just a susurrant waterfall, bringing sleep again.