a weathered blue wall

a weathered blue wall

on an adobe house

is more than a wall

I am soaking wet from head to toe, my Goretex hiking boots squishing with water from my fully-clothed immersion in the waterfall at the temple of the moon, and muddy from our hike down the mountain to wait for a bus. Now it's raining and we're plastered against a wall under a narrow overhang, sitting on sacks of quinoa. Antwan produces an incredibly ripe mango and I use Amaru's knife to slice it up to share with everyone, including a couple of chickens who snatch up the fallen bits. Now my hands are sticky with orange pulp and I am as a happy as a child making mud pies. Across the street there is an adobe house painted the color of the Andean sky when it's not raining. As I gaze at the wall, I see snow falling on snow-covered peaks, and then, floating in the azure sky, the letter "P," and further to the right, "L," and below and between, "S." It is like a pentimento, where the artist has painted over the original painting and later the previous version begins to bleed through. In the same way, memories and fantasies seep through surface thoughts, coloring them with a unique and mysterious melange.