Time in the Sierras Subbéticas

All week a caretaker started

hacking the hillside with his weed

whacker at dawn. Its fierce buzz

drove us, bleary with olive pollen

and summer heat, out to walk

through groves and whitewashed

village homes as the sun rose.

On the foothills road we stepped

aside for a baker’s pickup, its load

of fresh loaves stacked upright

in the bed. Each morning he slowed

to offer one and shook his head

when we declined. Where the road

turned south we saw a Moorish

lookout tower from medieval days

crumbled at the crest of a slope

but set aglow with morning light.

Haze rippled across the distance,

leveling the fields. Just below us

a barking dog streaked through

underbrush and leaped into a stream.