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dark green mountainous hills

rise out of

low-grazing clouds

that creep along

lago petrohue

a layered fog

that wraps its limbs

around the hilltops,

touching down

to the humble country homes

limbs reaching toward the distant

punte acudo

wispy white fading into the rainy sky

as our faces become wet with currents of rainwater,

our necks crane at the high hills.

the wind blows the hoods of our ponchos back,

but we don't care

this is the real

"magia del sur."

we cross small rivers up to our knees

shoes, pants and all

we are not cold, or sore.

we trudge in paths of mud

up to our ankles

we are not dirty.

we are in awe.

21.9.03