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 On the road from Valparaíso to Santiago the pull of the road The land was dry yet green, mountainous and heavy with vineyards. From a mere look I awoke and my thoughts were pulled open which had remained closed for so long. For what I saw, I never did rest. The road from Valparaíso to Santiago, beautiful and peaceful—a calming magnificence… pebbled bridge ridged like a wall, connecting mountainside to mountainside –– a lane by the highway to itself, a horse pulling a wagon carrying bags stuffed and a hatted man –– dusty hilly, a shack town in the range and trees –– standing to stretch to touch their toes alongside the road, a couple guy ramblers study their options, burn dry in the open sun –– flying as if two wings, the speed of the motorcycle two wheels –– a bus on the shoulder, backside open and luggage tossed and flipped and sorted –– making the hilltop taller, the posture of pines points to and is the sky –– a lone cow on the hill range slant, a black spot in the green of bush and brown of dust –– strolling a stroller and risky, a woman push baby down highway middle –– the eyes at her car unhappy, the hood up the engine smoking –– mountains rocky become mountains green, the change through the tunnel pass –– the valley of vineyards, straight line and many file and endless patch and around a mountain circle hugs –– a house flat on a mountain summit, built to survey to impress –– clear sky to the south, cloud thick to the north mountains grow taller, tops grow fainter –– four walls no roof of a shack halfway down a sloping hill slide, privileged view and abandoned –– the big blue in the valley, a lagoon waters rows of identical but colorful planned homes and towns –– the might of the snowy andes pokes through the santiago thrown up smog over the distance ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈ light in a shroud of fog ’Tis a sea change...know I not to what sea to what change... passing through the alley, a pretty vine covered house and a sun low morning, crisp air wakes –– collapsed over the moor brick tangled in weeds a lavender blossom among lavender wilting, a bush passes its season –– a brief wind, quivering the trumpet vine drops its extant bloom to the pavement, rose sallow skin –– bobbing in the sea in shimmers, city light in evening, swallows in fog –– tidy in bed of hills blanket of clouds, morning city white in flat waters –– fresh lemonade and brownies, a first day of work for three young girls, sunday smiles I woke naturally at an hour earlier than custom. The dimness evaporating into lightness, I was helpless. I am a man of my day and affected by a recent encounter… in a chilly haze hovering, coming on a dim light rising, the morning a wing –– a face to the over bay sun adrift into mist alone on the rooftop a flower full in bloom, others anon –– a pale blue sky over a flood rich earth, a light fine white sun passing, rain clouds clearing –– on tiptoes on rooftop in window peeking, wee bird a chirp and bright morning sun yonder –– a tree sawn bare, branch once rested on roof rested on earth, torn leaves wither –– sun in a fog setting, clouds charcoal and withering sky blooms, blasts magenta –– the autumn sun leaves waves of rose tint evanescent, a memory lingers The weeks of ending autumn and the leaves of the tree had changed to a sunbeam yellow. A pool of leaves lay crisp and clean at the wind of the alley below. I reached down and grabbed some like gold. The gold slipped from my hand back to the pool. It made the walk down to the bottom of the hill inviting… beneath a ginkgo bearing gifts golden leaf collects, a pool of sun afoot –– in brisk pierce of winter sweet tingling scent, spring to bloom lavender bud –– a spray of rain, atop a bump of a hill, a snow of pink blossom –– a cloud soft couch on a sunny day, was fogged over as I crossed the hill to the day off café  Author posing at an odd water fountain in Barcelona, España Gonzalo Adolfo, an American of Bolivian descent, the author of the short novels, No Rush For Goldand Golden Rushes, has published several volumes of photographic portraits of his travels;Cuchi Cuchi Time: a Portrait of Los Cabos is the most recent. He can be found in and around Berkeley, California, where he lives, sketching with graphite and other materials and dabbling in music–pairing the harmonica with the Bolivian charango is his current favorite diversion. Gone To War, his first volume of poetry, and his other works are available in hardcover and e-book on his website, www.bumhew.com.
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