The voice of the gods in the mountains,
Grey green and foam,
Rock-buffeted rush
Deep in its gouged chasm
Beneath scratched and scoured cliff.
Bromeliads cling to ancient
Boughs in leaf burst
While prickly pears droop flaccid,
Ready to swell.
The voice grows as we descend
The mule-strung paths
And contemplate the climb ahead:
Eternal roar and gush.
Long hours we zig and zag
From the depths of the chasm.
Scrunch and crush of feet on grit and dust
Following hat-rounded shadows.
The mountain peaks haloed in cloud above.
Step, step, breath, stick…
Mirroring our early morning path,
Where Inca feet with light tread
And broader lung once sped.
Scree and smooth rock rise
Under a sky blue sun,
Reddening knee and neck.
Heat glares from the dusty path,
Step, breath, step, stick…
The voice of the river fades
And humming bird and butterfly
Feast in the sun
as we tire:
Breath, breath, stick, step…
