The Hills of Mexico

i want to write about the hills of mexico, gypsies selling jewelry in the moonlight, children running half-naked and smiling through the streets. i want to paint the endless peaks and valleys, the coconut trees towering and the mexican cowboys clustered under ancient trees.

i want to tell stories of riding horseback through untouched lands; stubborn cattle crossing dusty roads, lazy nights between the sheets and the sun's glare on the water at dusk.

i will never lose the power of those lands and waters; the humpback whale, huge and silent, breaching by my side; the enormous cracking of mother and calf, father and son, against calm pacific waters. i want to sing the notes of being underneath the water's turquoise surface - loud aching blasts of saltwater and rock.

to be at home in mexico-the lands of jalisco, and nayarit-names carved into me - el anclote, sayulita and san pancho, the names of handsome men dancing on horseback- hooves on cobblestone streets, trucks on dirt roads. the names of huichol women, coming down from the mountains-braided hair and ancient love songs; drums, chanting, clapping and stomping.

love like a twenty foot swell, too huge to grasp and wonderful to ride - a cliff, a river, a mountain. a world where blood and water are hot, where fires burn all night.

i want to hold
mexico in the palm of my hand; fold it up neatly and keep it in a locket around my neck. or blow up those beautiful memories life-size and keep them-my future-pasted on the wall.

there is a beauty lying in the greens and browns of those mountains; there is a passion for life. there is a horizon that never ends.