Sitting in the front of the van next to Americo
conversing in that strange blend of gesture,
aroma, touch, sound, actual English—Spanish
words constituting our particular relationship.

The road extends dusty, rocky— a vague tan color.
On either side— vertical drops in unbelievable
canyons. We passed the last town— narrow streets,
stout matrons receding in full gold sheaths

Of late afternoon. The van jiggles its way across
a slightly wooded area. Eucalyptus trees planted
by Americo’s family, friends are fast, make good fires
on cold Andean nights. Suddenly, the road in front—

Electrified by the lightning fast passage of a small
jungle cat.The driver applies a gentle pressure to
brakes. A cat crosses the path from right to left—
first across Americo’s field of vision, then mine.

A second or two elapses before we can articulate.
Americo’s eyes glimmer like illuminated amber.
“An ocelot!” I cry in disbelief. Of all places to see
a jungle cat— not yet on the road to the Amazon,

And we see an ocelot. Leaning back in reverie, on the
way to Salka Wasai— the Wild House. The road is rocky—
its curves extreme. Conditions bad. Yet, we have been
invested with the spirit of the ocelot, a creature of the

Wild, hunter of the night, one who slinks and skulks next
to Pachamama on incredibly light cat feet.
We are placed under the guidance of one who
plucks creatures out of air for sustenance.

Traveling this road in a blue van driven by Alberto,
we are surrounded and embodied with this meowing,
purring, snarling, furry, frantic, silky feline essence.
The road is ours yet— not just ours. The way to Salka Wasai

Is the way of the hunter— we need guidance of the beast.
When we arrive, these divisions cease to matter.
The van stops in the cool evening, surrounded by a dozen
copper-skinned children and young men.

Our feet make contact with the graveled path, with
Pachamama. They seem heavier here than when
we were on the van—on the road, propelled ever
so lightly by the van’s incessant vibrations.

Nonetheless, within my body, the ocelot dwells.
I breathe visibly, noticing texture in hills related—
undoubtedly, to the curves of North American sisters.
My skill responds under my fleece jacket to the mountain air.

In a nearby canyon, hawks, eagles soar, immense prey for a
soul just such as mine. The road extends past an old church
where Americo’s ancestors are buried. My heart leaps,
sensing its nomadic tracker self.

I carry no suitcases— traveling light.
Needing something in House of the Wild, entering dwelling
with its uneven floors, I view casual meditation gardens,
its glass cabinets, are full of band aids and unused antibiotics.