Because Erin came all the way home to celebrate her big birthday with us--and she got me remembering this trip--images that are all tied up with my best and most treasured thoughts of her.

                     Snapshots of Ecuador

Here is one taken from the window of a bus--
A great pyramid of volcano in the last yellows of evening
And Erin saying, "hurry, hurry!"
As though anything so grand, so stoic,
       so snowy white and sure against the deepening blue,
Could be fleeting.
There.  See.
We captured it just before it disappeared behind a cloud.
And still you can't feel in front of it, around it,
The pressing, jolting heat of the crowded bus,
Or see the quiet-eyed children wedged between
       their parent's knees and elbows and bundles,
Or hear the parade of hawkers up and down the aisle
Yodeling their wares and apologies for disturbing
                     in a bright sing song--
       "mandarinas, mandarinas, mandarinas--
               dulces, fritas, chicle."

And here's the one of steep mountains
       terraced to their very tops
And over there, the old woman with the scythe
The oxen team, the burros, grazing on the stubble
                     in her wake.
And by the earthen wall a bright ring of girls.
See their smiles, the golden cloud of chaff above their heads
                            swirling in the slanting light.
And only the skinny dogs look straight into our lens
                     watching us watching.
But you can't smell the woodsmoke and eucalyptus.
You can't feel the thinness of the air
                     its clarity, its chill.

This is the picture I took as the distant church bell sounded
And the clovey scent of something purple
       rose up from the cobbled path.
And another taken minutes before an evening rain
              in the holiness of an abandoned garden
And one I took when the dogs began their chorus
       and a lone rooster joined in
       and a blue tuft of smoke curled
                     between my lens and the soft mountains.

And I apologize for all of these.
I've a weakness for barnyard animals--
And so many times, to my delight, our little journey
Waited on the whims of cows and goats and sheep
                     or burros wandering the road.
Who could resist a llama with tasseled ears
       or a brand new lamb in a toddler's arms
                     or a chicken on a string?
But we weren't fast enough for a photo of the boy
Bursting from bushes after a passel of piglets
                            and chased by a giant sow.
And we missed the one spied from the train--
A little boy pulling a rock by a bright red thread.

Here are the streets cobbled and narrow.
The doorways--dark, earth mouths,
The people clustered at them mysterious as stories
       swaddled and elaborate
       layered in scarlet and blue and gold
Beaded, shawled and bundled with babies and produce
       and the carefully prescribed hats.
But can you see the shy eyes, the easy smiles
The childlike way they steal a glance?
Or hear the soft and gentle lilt of voice
       the deference, the sturdy grace?

And these are of my daughter.
In this one she wears a garland of children
Their wide open smiles ring her face like flowers.
Here she is holding a pet parrot
And here she is holding the baby.
But there is no picture of their mother weeping
Her back to us to hide great choking sobs at our last goodbye.
And there is no photo of the tiny house
       not much bigger than a closet
Or that other mother's tear blotched face
Begging not to be forgotten.
As if we could forget her five pretty daughters
Lined up on a wooden bench and radiant as candles
       singing for us under the bare bulb.
As if we could forget the dark path from their porch
Their wild waving
Their voices like bells growing soft
       against the rush of water over stones
       against tree frogs at the jungle's edge
       and the symphony of stars blazing
                     low against the hanging bridge.
As if we could forget the long walk back to the road
When our hearts were bursting.