Sailing adrift in a city in the sky, silver and white tendrils floating by while their more sedate parents sprawl over the mountains sleeping below, sprawled not on cresting tops but comfortably settled mantle-like, as though a collection of blankets and cushions, carelessly tossed or else, like silver and pearl and white confections: cotton candy or merengue, it’s hard to say.
There’s a sun hiding out there somewhere, I can tell: brilliant luminosity underlies some of the clouds, although, because it’s not really concentrated in any single place, it’s difficult to say just where old sol is sleeping, carelessly casting rays of miracle light on fortunate dwellers below.
It’s an eerie beauty: very chill, very frail, very fragile, isolating, as though elementals have returned to claim their ancient birthrights and humans are wisely hiding or even wiser still, safely fled. A splendor ruled over by flora and vapors and mists with fauna nowhere in sight, perhaps the way primordial winds saw the new born earth before the rise of man, before the first beast or even the primal solitary yeast; when volcanic furies’ thirst was for the first time quenched.
But then: — not quite. Hushed as it seems, the city’s still a presence and in the depths below the city lie villages and towns, and in the houses set within them lie people in their varied beds, some dreaming and others awake, but all, like me, still drawing breath and some, perhaps, sharing my illusions while others taste of my despondency and fret.
Sailing adrift in a city in the sky, silver and white tendrils float by and I sit and wonder how I come to find my mind listing along on streams of fancy, idly wondering why.
 © Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2010; all rights reserved