dream in jungle.

I had a dream last night that I was looking at pictures of the Camino, but all the pictures were of things that never happened. Still, I looked at them with the same fondness, love.

(I know) I am haunted (here in this jungle).

Here in this jungle the sounds of geccos, of howler monkeys ring out at 5 a.m. and the wood smoke from the fire billows through the cabin. We crave coffee this early, this hot and the floor boards creak under blistered toes and the sand drips from pores all the way down the stairs.

The house sits back from the ocean, tucked into gardens and trees with so many white-faced monkeys swinging, babies clutched to backs, throwing mangoes at the tin roofs.

Head sits in elbow at 5 a.m. as the sun rises out in the distance and the barrel of the Pacific crashes on the Playa Grande just into the yonder. It smells of salt, and sweat, in that elbow.

At 8 a.m. it is hot. Bothered. And the work is tedious, difficult (sometimes), dirty (mostly). And the sweet pineapple compensates, when it can make its way to camp.... otherwise, the fire burns the rice and beans and we hunch tired over bowls, laughing.

Hammocks in the sand at the burning bits of the day. Those afternoons... Sweet breezes, where they can be found and that fresh water pool two beaches over. Homes for all those burning daydreams.

Then the sun sinks early and the guitar and woodsmoke and cards sift through the air until the candle light melts away.

Darkness, bed with clean skin and all that sand and dreams of all those lovely things that never happened.