Footprints in the Dust

Photo by Antonio Ramblés

Photo by Antonio Ramblés

Days are what you make them, so after the cats are fed, the coffee savored, and the Hibiscus has opened its petals to embrace the sun, it is time for a walk through the village.

 

Dawn lay in bed this morning

as if not wanting to get up,

the earth turning on a breeze;

            still lake, still mountain.

As the sun yawns awake,

I linger under the covers until the rooster,

his call the sound of turning the key

while the motors running,

stops to gargle,

my neighbor Maria

starts the laundry machine,

and I am beckoned

by the seductive aroma of coffee.

 –

Above the garden wall,

beyond the bougainvillea,

royal palms dancing in a wind created

by the feeding frenzy of swallows.

The full moon almost visible to the touch,

hangs around as the morning sun

climbs the mountains;

two old friends passing,

and caught in-between,

the fisherman’s day has just begun.

DSCN3966

Photo by Author

Leaving my flowered canopy

 I saunter quietly past garments

 hanging onto barbwire fences and rooftops,

 soiled moments and colors fading in the sun

only to be greeted with the morning revelry;

the tires on the carretera sounding

like waves lapping the lake shore,

God’s alarm clock calling the faithful,

a mixed bag of fiesta and bustle.

Photo by Antonio Ramblés

Photo by Antonio Ramblés

 After La Lluvia, a tropical tease

 when the mountains were dressed in colors

 of hand-woven shawls and bright sequined  skirts,

 dry season dressed in peasant garb

 made an entrance with dust on its’ tongue,

 and stripped to bare bone.

Cool mornings exit

when shadows go silent.

Photo by Author

Photo by Author

Fishermen row back to shore

when half day is done,

trailing white pelicans.

In the afternoon heat.

I pass by my neighbors

resting in the shade

their sombrero’s tethered in dust.

In this thirsty landscape,

gnawed to the bone,

life is nourished on a blade of grass.

 

In a slow tango heat burns day away,

evening simmers.

Returning to mi casa, Los Bobos

foolishly dance over dry birdbaths,

the smell of polle on a spit,

a warm breeze combing the bougainvillea,

reverberating rockets

chasing the evil spirits away.

Across the glazed Lake Chapala,

at the feet of the Sierras,

the villages turn on their lights;

fallen stars.

End of day, all season have their way,

a child at play,

a lover’s warm embrace,

a fall from grace,

and in the season of saints,

for every heartbeat,

at last,

a place to sleep.

The photography focuses on Lake Chapala and the surrounding villages that include Ajijic, Chapala, Jocotepec an so much more.  In addition to my pics many have been contributed by Antonio Ramblés  . Visit Antonio Ramblés travels blog at www.antoniorambles.com

One comment on “Footprints in the Dust

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