Central America

One trip,

Two small planes,

Eight people,

Down the coast of Mexico

Into Guatemala

Along the sparkling

Green

Coast Line.

The blues of the ocean

Sweep in,

Turquoise, cerulean

Moving, changing.

Flying close to the ground.

Creamy beaches,

Ruins among the jungle

Palm trees.

Long legged birds

Spread wings and

Soar into slow motion.

Above

Solid white clouds,

Two coal black cones,

Smoking Volcanoes!

We circle

Close.

Central America below.

An opening in the clouds

We spiral down

And land.

Cool tiles.

Gauze curtains

Ripple in the breeze

No walls.

Swim

Crystal clear waters.

Explore

Crumbling cities.

Climb

Pyramids and temples

In the shimmering heat.

Motor scooter

Along rocky shores

Startling sunning iguanas.

Steep cliffs

Down to

Crashing waves below.

Roaring power.

Wind and spray

Plastered clothes

To steaming bodies.

Wet and breathless.