Tara

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Every salt flat north of San Pedro
stretches into the Andes with
hundreds of colors striped between
here and there

My family walks one hundred meters away
to the edge of the cliff—
I stay back because I think,
that if I got too close I would try to fly,
over the edge to the mountains, above the canyon

Volcanic ash beneath me,
empty blue sky above, I’ve never seen these pinks in reality
(am I dreaming?)

The Corsicans jump by the edge
as if they believe they can fly too
held aloft only by the flag they carry
and the wind whipping across the flats

Is this all just a dream?
Can I really fly to the mountains?

Hidden in the volcanic ash are
flecks of obsidian – reminding me
that beauty is found when you open yourself
to it,

in destruction, there is beauty.

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