I saw a man on the pedestrian street with sparklers, but I didn’t really see it the first few times he lit one. I gust saw a small gust of chispas from the corner where he was standing. I was chatting with a couple of friends. They were facing the Zocalo, and I was facing him. As they turned to go, it rose again, but this time it was a fountain of of golden sparks.

A block more and I was at Santo Domingo. As people were emerging from the church, they were lighting sparklers, the kind I have known since childhood. I watched adults and children stir up the sky with the sort of joy that is imperative when holding a scintillating stick spitting light in whichever direction.


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