I wake before sunrise in a home
midpoint on Sierra San Juan Cosalá
and walk out to the patio central, wrap
the loud, rough serape round my shoulders,
and pull back the easel’s shroud.

I gaze below to Lake Chapala—
wide and still. Dawn dances
her first light there, then comes
from behind hills to reach
up the highest peaks,
painting them pink and gold.

I mix my own colors on a palette,
but that sacred pink evades my brush.

From the village below, still dark,
a rooster crows. A window light, then two,
then more turn on. I outline
the mountains in sienna brown,
move across the canvas, sketch
in the town, and find the right red for the bird.
It aches— that I can paint his image,
but not the jagged, throaty call.

Too soon, I fold the easel shut.
I grab a plátano from the kitchen,
descend the steep path. Board
the third-class bus to school.
Sit by a woman with a bucket
of fresh frothy milk,
peer in—
and find my pink.