I am closer to the sky here, I worship the sun as did my forefathers, clouds are but the dusting of feathery glory on a world within reach. My mountains catapault me to the point where an outstretched hand touches a wispy dream of a cloud, almost.
Elevation makes the air thinner and I only notice this when I´m in the middle of another interminable staircase and while the legs are willing, the lungs are begging for another sweet breath. Maybe it´s because I´m breathing in the sky, inhaling the blue, then bright white and gray and yet never enough to fill the gaps in my chest that leave me longing for more.
The perfect imperfection of a blue sky dotted with fluffy white vapors of air caught in formation because how else do you traverse the immensity of the upper universe, but together, holding hands? Rolling dark in the impending storm, beseeching me to take cover, unleashing their cargo and then reforming into puffs of sweet cotton seemingly just to remind me that storms always pass.
Reflecting the colors of a perfect sunset, pink, orange, later purplish-blue, the Andean clouds or rather a petulant child, reluctant to give in to the respite of a long night, turning colors into protest for once darkness hits it´s harder to notice her, best to make the world see her glory now.
As if to clothe myself in the finest silk to radiate the warmth of the sun, the stillness of a storm yet to come, the prophecy and the revelation at once, to stretch and grow and change and reflect, I can be it. Closer to the sky here, in Cuenca, then I ever was in NYC even on top of the tallest skyscraper. My hands could never reach the heights of glory and it took that letting go, the release of the terrestrial, the everyday moments so far from bliss, to rename home as a place of beauty reflected rather than scorn multiplied, to float away letting the winds carry me and finding my place in the infinity of possibilities.