Wagons Rolling Down the Mountain

I opened the balcony door and stepped out to the balmy evening. Rain trickled down all afternoon, wrecking our plans to climb the mountain under whose skirts the small hotel stood. The ancient house, built during colonial times and made of adobe, had dark and dank rooms. The balcony was a narrow ledge protected by wrought-iron, and I leaned on the railing as I gazed at the mountain nearby.

The sun had set moments before, and its last rays intensified the green of the mountain. Verde que te quiero verde, I thought, and watched the flitting hummingbirds defend their territory at the feeder in the walled garden below my room. Hummingbirds—such big wars raging in such tiny creatures. No wonder the Aztecs believed warriors reincarnated as hummingbirds; only the bees dared to defy them.