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.
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.
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.
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,
Returning to mi casa, Los Bobos
foolishly dance over dry birdbaths,
the smell of polle on a spit,
a warm breeze combing the bougainvillea,
chasing the evil spirits away.
Across the glazed Lake Chapala,
at the feet of the Sierras,
the villages turn on their lights;
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,
a place to sleep.