9 conquistadors and one Tree of Life.
Steeled themselves, warmarama to the concrete sounds of the jungle.
Onward to the moist Goldilocks hillock, triple bear check.
Onward to the Crossing, 3 ways to live and one way to die.
As we lay on the tracks, watching the slow clouds, necks on the rail, one certainty.
The train comes, one day or another. Not today.
Hacking deeper into the woods on the trail of tents, we didn’t find The Fountain.
Only the inevitability of acceptance, open to all men, rain or shine.