The Mission at San Mareal

when these walls were built in Spain
the priests blessed them with holy water
and the Lord's Prayer was writ upon them
with a rod of smoking flax

they were sailed around the Horn
till they arrived in Mexico
and were installed in a lonely mission
high on a hill overlooking the village
of San Mareal

Father Julian served there for decades until he
passed away in his sleep one night
beneath an August moon
while the cows were lowing in the pasture

and thereafter, the little mission of San Mareal
sat abandoned, as the town withdrew from the sun
until it too, grew dried as corn husks and was deserted

two hundred years later, I wandered among the ruins
listening to the ocean in the distance, roaring below the cliffs
while the occasional wild dog would appear, chewing on the roots
of the rio corso, a type of desert radish

as a wanderer myself, I decided to abide there awhile
the nearest outside civilization was over fifty miles
in each direction. I was alone there, and it suited me.

by providence, I caught a wild bird and hastily built a cage for it.
I tended it and soon it laid an egg. while not as tasty as chicken eggs,
their flavor was agreeable enough for who it was for.

the mission had had there own well so long ago, and gratefully, there was
still water there, for the well was deep within the rock.
sitting there in the shade of the wall, I lifted the metal cup to my lips,
drinking the cold liquid. it was good.

once, a storm arose from the west; I saw it approaching across the ocean
from the barren wastes far out to sea. it was ominous, black; its ramparts
shouldering the sun upon its breadth, unstoppable in its fury.

I was not worried. I crawled into a cave not far from the mission, the wild dog,
whom I had named Bolo, followed after, laying inside the mouth of cave,
figuratively protecting me from the elements. as the rain lashed the rock and sand,
he growled once, deep within his chest, then laid quiet, his eyes following the
ghostly clouds, and the flashing lightning.

my days at San Mareal passed like ships in the night, the heat, the cold,
the scorpions and the perones, the name I gave the wild birds I raised.
someday, my bones will lie here, my skeleton bleached by the winds, the rains,
the sun. and life will continue on has it always has.