Eleven bold, orchid pillers esconing the sky.
I love their color: It defines majesty: Great sky, little birds, declare thyself! And they do, with chirps and piercing cries, kicked up on the wind, merrily gliding along the mountain’s steep, shrubbed sides. They look like kites, and I feel as though I could fly with them. Is this real? I am at the highest part of earth here, playing with the lowest part of heaven.

When last we came, the heavy doors had closed us inside, and we were seated on opulent, crimson velvet placed in curled knots of a deep-stained wood. I had gingerly fingered one of the chair’s wood flowers and marveled at the skill of it’s artist.
Colorful paintings of the countryside and of the activities of a foreign people hung in the dining and living rooms, and I caught sight of a huge, glistening, gold-framed mirror in the bathroom.
Supper had been the delight of papaya and plantain, choice and sweet. Cello, violin, piano, and my father’s flute serenaded our sole host, an ample audience of one.
The best part of our visit? Sunset. . . from above.

I am here again, with several others. Tonight we sing down the sun, with stronger voices, and guitars add spice to the chill evening breeze. Tonight, fire in a half culdron glows and cackles, its writhing dance of light competing with stars and the distant spread of glittering city and towns.

Music ends and feast begins. I scald my tongue twice attempting to down steaming apple cider and am forced to soothe it by devouring triangles of pita with smooth gobs of hummus. Hot tomato soup and salted cashews, pecans, brazil nuts compliment the platters of fresh diced vegetables.
There is the ever-present flow of happy chatter, laughter, and earnest conversation.
This home is beautiful, lavish with Peruvian artifacts. This night sky is brilliant, this fire mesmerizing.
But the best part?

Sunset.