Guatemala Dream

I dreamt of Huitzilopochtli wandering the morning shoreline.

I listened to his bare feet crunching in the seashells,

heard the jungle moaning in the wake

of his flight.

I dreamt a hummingbird as locked in battle with two hawks:

I saw the feathers of its plumage plucked and fall,

watched the small bird beat its wings

into the dawn.

I dreamt that mossy pathway where the prophet

once on muddied hands did crawl, where now only bats lived,

the place whispered of in the villages

of our birth.

I dreamt of a strange face,

I saw it as a statue’s gaze at the bottom of the sea.

I saw gold coins glimmering by its toes

in the murky waters.

And when finally I returned ashore

Huitzilopochtli was gone, only his tracks being left.

Already, the dusk had

begun.