Ramón’s Eyes

,

.

for Ramón Valdez, with thanks

He must be part iguana, one eye

fast on gravel curves, one eye

scanning the canopy.

Even when he points,

patiently

explains,

half the time, we're blind.

Driving the bus, he guides us

toward sight.

He's sharp as razor wire

no matter where we are—

city, cloud forest, coast.

~

In the rainforest,

Ramón

speaks quetzal,

whistles tanager, thrush,

hummingbird, finch,

sooty robin, wren.

When he calls,

they come closer,

curious.

He's silent, though,

reverent

when the giant tinamou

with no warning

meanders

across our path.

~

Cousin to the vireo, Ramón,

ruby eyes flaming, builds a

cup nest in the canopy.

He catches in bare hands

a tiny flash of green—

speckled ranita,

poison dart frog,

set out so we can see.

Our leader says,

See what Ramón

just did?

Don't do that.

~

Dust so thick, we lose

the truck in front,

the one behind.

An oxcart lunges

up onto road top,

overloaded, red tangles

of just-harvested

palm nuts, black knobs

pressed for oil.

Along the coast,

Ramón swerves to the verge,

sets the brake.

In one tree,

two, three,

six macaws, raucous,

twenty now,

scarlet,

on the wing.

~

Ramón directs us

to the roadside stand

where on the last day

he picks up queso,

mango, heart-shaped

milk candies. Home.

If you ever fly north,

Ramón, nuestro casa

es su casa.

Ramón's eyes fill—

Y mi casa es suyos . . .

is small, my house,

but yours.

Ramón, whose daughter chose

for her quinceanera

six friends from school,

a cake her mamá baked,

and her family.

Ramón, looking cloudward

for the rains, season

when he rests

in his own nest

after months on the road

barely blinking.