When Night Falls

​
We two absorbed every jolt from the bus 
axle along the track to Uxmal.
We climbed the magic stairway
to the pyramid’s austere apex,
clinging to a swaying metal handrail.
Afraid to look down, we imagined
vertigo, misstep, gathering speed, 
breaking bones. We snapped 
a photo of the forest canopy, 
then retreated inch by inch 
into the arms of gravity.

Giddy at our survival, and stumbling 
over each other like drunks, we lurched,
nearly trampling a party of ants
filing out of the underbrush,
one after another, bearing leaves.
We saw no end to their train
of silence and concentration
as they marched past, inches from our boots.
Finally we took the giant steps
needed not to disturb their industry,
wondering if the ants remembered
why the pyramid-builders left.

Back in Merida, slathered with sweat,
we sat at tables under the stars
in the town square, ordering beer,
almost enough to slake our thirst, 
and pork and squash flavored with oranges.
A man carrying a dozen hammocks
on his back, in more colors than you’d see 
in a whole afternoon’s shopping at Macy’s,
was calling out to tired and drunken 
diners, promising a sleep deep 
enough to forget why the forest 
all around lay full of ruins.