The Black Shawled Widows of Castillay Leon
step from clamorous hives of tenement houses and walk the grafted sycamore alameda, two slow, dark seasons of belief. They’ve come out for the night’s paseo, pulling their market carts, question-stooped, cobbled hand in hand, with bread for the pigeons still, and spit for the bust of Franco. They walk to the stork-priested […]