Chronicles of Walking: A Season of Draught, Monte Mojino.

 

Here  I am. Again. Mauto has already bared its pods and soon I’ll be walking on them as they await fertile moisture in order to root. This year I could not find anywhere its abundance.

 This landscape seems pale and neutral, but for me, a dry landscape reveals the backside of my heart, eager for spontaneity, out of my control, beyond my reasonable self.

Delicate Bombax does not want to pass me to simply pass it by. He is not in bloom and thus I long for the memory of its sensual flowers with multiple steams.

For the naked eye the conspicuous presence of these trees, along with bitachis, cholugos, mochomos and cachoras  which are certainly acquainted with my presence.

Not even two hours after sunrise and the light has an amazing intensity.

To the right young Güinolos expanding their thorny branches in silent control  of the light reaching over the poor soil.

Two white herons position themselves on the zenith.  

 I am late this morning to witness many other bird’s territorial defensive flights. I take this absence as a sign of welcome. I belong here.

In the back distant roads  the fine-tuned Amapas all in grey, aligned side by side ready to bloom in yellow, white and pink. Every creature attentive to be orchestrated by the first drop of rain. It won’t happen for another 30 days from today.

Trees compete for attention when suddenly I find tiny inconspicuous Woodpecker, perched on a Tempeserano framing the full moon in the early morning light. Woodpecker must be a male waiting for his mate. I remain looking upward on a shady spot hoping to prove myself right.

 In front of me an old Palo Chino tree, hosting the nest of a migratory Oriole. Everyone is waiting for San Juan’s day, on June the 24th, the date monsoons will start, as they always do, without failure.

A few steps ahead of the trail I am lucky to come across a brilliant orange round fruit at my reach; I grasp it, indulge in its roundness and intoxicating vibrant color.