The sparks of fireworks burst across the night sky.  In the red silence after the explosive dance it might be possible for some visitors to imagine that the fire burst in the sky is more spectacular than the sunset just hours before.  Along the incremental sidewalk and across cobbled together roads I remember walking a few blocks to a corner where the light of a lamp standard opened the street chef to taste buds.  In the sizzling oil a coil of to-be churros splatters.  The fried coil is gently lifted on to the sugar/cinnamon layered tray and cut into edible sections.  For a few pesos taste buds are elevated like fireworks to the spectacular.

Along the way, an indoor pickle ball court.  Here the sport has moved indoors to avoid the heat.  Word has it that back home they are moving some of these courts inside to avoid the rain.  The sport has cut into retired circles like fireworks.  A burst of energy lighting the night sky.

In the darker waters the crocodile waits.  The jaws of death powered by hunger and opportunity. The waters darker than the night sky.  Somewhere between the churros splashing, the pickle ball bouncing and the jaws clapping there are flashes of light that break into the night sky.  Between the images of light it becomes more difficult to see the lesser light; the light of the moon that guides our way.