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.