Magic mountains blow dream worlds of wonder as Condors rising on currents of sharp waves of dryness that leave lungs wanting.
Patchwork inclines sewn with broken backs, threads of ancient wisdom strain under the modern cries that echo through canyons and paramos knocking on the doors of thatched roofed huts, whispering in the ears of poncho clad natives, weaving webs of lies in tired minds.
Sitting in the folds of Antisana on the shores of Mica Lake, the paramo rises and falls like folds of wrinkled skin caressed by storm laden clouds. Lone fishermen stand along the edge of the lapping waters with birds singing them on. Tufts of mountain grass bend in the breath that bursts through these mighty lungs yet mine stay empty. No maps, no compass, just the sun overhead, so close it caresses my body with waves of intense heat against the glacial Antisana winds. The water harp softly soothes one to sleep backed by the shiver of pampas grass.
Storm clouds gather on the opposite shore waiting for an opportunity to envelope all and send us on our way.
Now for Megan's poem -
The waves crack as the clocks strike twelve.
Clumps of mud lie everywhere like stepping stones that lead to the hiding places of the pumas and the deer.
On the opposite side smooth mountains sit like patchwork quilts sloping up and down.
As the rain starts to fall people drive away and ducks head for cover.
I seem to be the only one who stays.
By Megan - aged 9
