Creek Running North

Fog rolls down over the shoulder of Tamalpais. The Richmond and Sonoma hills are backlit, pale behind the steelhead-colored bay.

Jaime Torres sings from the little speakers in the truck. I believe the bailecito will always be my favorite style of music. Formal and yet colloquial, forward major key turning coyly to a relative minor. Torres plays the charango, a relative of the mandolin once made from the shells of armadillos. High in the 17th-century Andes, there were few large trees for instrument making. He sings Zamba de la Candelaria, a song written by Jaime Dávalos and Eduardo Falú, a sweet lament about holiday candelarias cheering up the lonely traveler. I remind myself not to close my eyes while driving. I focus my attention on the road.
And then comes Sirviñaco, another Dávalos and Falú song, a joyous young man entreating his love to marry him, and live with him on charango music and tobacco.

Y si tus tatas se enteran,
ya tendrán consolación,
que todas las cosas tienen
con el tiempo la ocasión.

Y si Dios nos da un changuito
a mí no me ha de faltar
voluntad pa andar juntitos
ni valor p’a trabajar.

I have to pull over. The estuary of Corte Madera Creek shimmers a few feet away. I hit “replay” and close my eyes, gripping the wheel tight in my hands, squeezing every last note and quaver from the air.