A woman laughed.
A cockatoo.
The
other I thought water over stones was voices, countless voices.
Before
my eyes wings of orange and purple in the breeze blowing
across my face like hair I pulled them, parted them suspecting
some game or trick to spin me about
and demand location spinning,
after all all that was
spinning were the clear water balls tossed
sparkling up cerulean sunshot sky by the juggler's
buoyant hands.
She
juggled; others danced; the fountain was in
the center as it should have been.
Some said there were other fountains, farther
along, further out, away, but
the women seemed content, and highly pleased, with
this blue and splashing, white and foaming, bubbling,
singing fountain growing a spreading tree for
wealth and welcome centered
in the zocolo.
I was above,
for now, at 1st,
in what I guessed a balcony though
it may have been a balloon's gondola.
More than 1 had risen, now hovered, like
paper lanterns or fair pennants
parti-colored, brightly colored on
the cloudless aquamarine.
Many
things had risen, it seemed possible,
the air was so fresh, the sun was so warm.
I wondered
if I were to join the throng, for a moment
the whisp of realization passed me, hovered.
Down the ropes like a rhesus monkey.
But
I could not move from where I stood so held
in grip the woven rim.
