L'aura del Campo

3 January 2013 pieces... there are more... :-)

I need to edit more often!

Summer in Santa Maria

The dying light whispers over the ridge, a silhouette fringed with limbs the woodmen left. It meets the breeze, a wisp of cloud, the delight of children playing before they’re summoned for supper. Calm descends as a breath of wind softens, as night darkens birds already at rest.

Bells toll this vesper hour, the dying day repeats: amen, amen, amen. And night flowers to share its fragrance. Now they chant a simple melody, a rhythm begging the village join in harmony.

Orbs wink on, strange stars that earthbound do not amble. They glow red and white and amber.

A quiet rustle, the creaking of insects. The spent day’s over. Let the night begin.

9.enero.2013, Santa Maria de Dota.

Crumbs for the pigeon

A pigeon searches for crumbs, dares to enter the restaurant, runs when people arrive. It’s Friday afternoon, the market naps and the family stops to eat. Everyone is family here. No fancy meals, no fancy dress, just common food of the countryside: filling, cheap, served with smiles.

I’ve searched for crumbs. The leavings of crust or kindness. I’ve fled from where bitterness preceded the folks who harbored it. I’ve day-dreamed of a place that only the good-hearted could find. Not fancy, just friendly, perhaps an urban center surrounded by countryside, protected by a barrier of smiles.

The pigeon has left. I will too, taking what crumbs of kindness that have been proffered. I will seek a place to nap, precious moments to dream.

11.enero.2013, Perez Zeledon, Soda El Molino.

Letter to Hobie from Rincon de la Vieja

Mud pots would erase our wrinkles, warm thermal waters ease all pain. Light mist from far off clouds refresh these moments. Winds blow them all away.

Have you felt this way, sitting in a warm pool, surrounded by winter? When elk appeared out of fog were you amazed? Mystified? What eased your pain before you found someone to share it with?

Snow falls like ash in the place you call home. Here ash and rock, fumes and steam remind me that even the hearts of mountains move.

In the melt of the day this afternoon sun casts rainbows. Pots burble. Fumes disperse. Winds blow my thoughts your way.

19.enero.2013. Rincon de la Vieja.

73,632