4 January 2019

Yesterday morning, I woke up in Mexico.

We'd come in late the night before, journeyed though a small, silent, yet colorful town.

Our driver, Homero, had waved a hand skyward, toward where the towering peaks of the Potrero were meant to be.

It was foggy then, but we would see them tomorrow.

I awoke, stumbled outside into the light.

Suddenly aware of my presence to the other guests out on the patio, bent into various shapes, a silent and reflective meditation. They were positioned like statues around an empty swimming pool.

We walked around the building's edge. I was distracted by my camera until I was told, finally, to "look up!"

There they were, peaks so massive I couldn't believe they were real, towering over Homero's campground, our insignificance palpable.

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