The clouds above the mountains of Mexico—how palpable they
were, towering expanses of particles of water, layer upon layer of
overlays of white, brighter than white as if lit from within, mountainous
shapes cresting the mountains. He dreamt of being part of their
vaporous solidity as they crossed the peaks, spreading their shadows
over the emerald variations far beneath. Wouldn't he relinquish his
solitude to join that snowy company? Then a darkening as thunderheads
rose above the horizon—cumulonimbus, nimbostratus—soon
a chill breeze, a few drops, then the deluge cascading over white
adobe houses, cobblestone streets, thunder battering the sky as
streets turned to rivers, rivers cataracts, and he still among them,
swept toward the sea—nothing left to strive for or struggle against
with his surrender a minor event already lost from memory.