Alf the Poet posted:

In springtime, the mountains near Mejave Mai burst into a vast
expanse of color.  It it then that the little children are sent
out to collect the beautiful blossoms for the Festival de las
Fajitas, celebrating the rebirth of nature in an otherwise brown,
dusty land.  Scampering _con_zapatos_ about the hillsides, the
children fill canvas sacks as large as themselves with _bontivas_,
_fluchos_, and even the rare _sonda_flamado_, the flaming goat's
nose, whose fragrance is said to arouse even old Padre Sanchez
from his afternoon siesta.

It is a time of peace and good wishes.  In the evenings, snatches
of old songs can be heard as one passes down the main street.  Good
friends share quiet moments, and families relish the joy of
togetherness.  The hard times ahead, tending the fields and working
the herds through the sweltering heat of summer, are forgotten for
a time, and everyone feels complete.

In a small room on the upper floor of the local tavern, El Dupree
lies contentedly on the floor.  He sees in his mind's eye times
long past, or perhaps yet to come, the fleeting visions softened
by his drunken haze.  This is his favorite time of year.  Time to
cease wandering, for a little while.  Time to rest, to eat and to
drink, to roll passionately in the late evening dust with Juanita
while her brothers, the jealous Garcia boys, are out of hearing.

His headsacks are strewn about the room, his shirt unbuttoned, or
perhaps just bursting open where his impressive gut is swollen even
more than usual.  A trickle of drool makes a sticky puddle against
his cheek.  His feet twitch pleasantly.  The sonorous drone of his
labored breathing harmonizes with the buzz of flies about his body.
Sight is fogged, life is good.

Soon it will be time to head west, once again to pick up the trail
of Delray Dupree, his only son, his chief tormentor.  Or perhaps
to seek out the mysterious woman that some are calling Tortilla
Dupree, La Cooperativa, supposed sister of El Dupree, who spreads
wide and often in search of Nirvana, though she has never been to
Seattle.  So many journeys, so many yet to come.

But for now, enlightenment is once again in a bottle, contentment
in the overwhelming odor of Masa Harina and dried sweat, though the
difference is minimal.  Juanita knocks quietly, pauses, then opens
the door, leading her brothers into the room.

Alf

P.S.  To learn more about El Dupree, we suggest that you visit your
      local public library, or maybe just your local pub.  They'll
      be happy to help you "Read More About It(TM)."