Starry

No baseball cap. No tank top. No cargo shorts. No, not those people resting on a stone slab. No, not those people with their lean tall bodies, their long wavy hair, their white linen. They stand out among the others visiting this garden made for gods. I stumble and stare. I stare and stumble. They look beautiful lounging on their make-shift Monolith in Red. I see them and feel the peasant within me. I reach for my camera and do nothing. My short lens requires me to go face to face. My camera asks me to be brave and, maybe more important, not late for a train that carries me to a mountain peak above fourteen thousand feet. I exit the train and stand near an edge. No guard rail. No oxygen. No wind breaker. I go inside where I see caps, tanks and shorts. And donuts dipped in fudge. And them. I see them, my god human loungers, standing with deep fried deliciousness in their hands. I wait in line for my own.