Andres

Andres stepped into a tangle of light, looked above him to the sparse canopy of trees for a moment, and then sat down. He pitched his wide-brimmed hat back onto the crown of his head. Behind him, he heard the dogs tied to the cement wash basins snoring loudly in the shade. He cocked his head toward them for a minute before looking ahead to where the trees stretched out toward the inevitable meniscus of the valley.
Just past the useless palm and bursera trees, the land sloped gently down, seemingly forever, spanning acre upon acre of coffee fields before settling into the cradle of the valley. There, a small stream carried an endless brigade of leaves and twigs off to the river.
Andres sat there, illuminated in patches where the canopy allowed, and wondered aloud, "Where are you, you little fucker?"