San Andres Semetabaj, Solola — December 30, 2024

I walked out onto the terrace in San Andres Semetabaj a little before the light went. The sky over the hills had already started its slow shift, pink bleeding into lavender, the kind of color that makes you stop mid-sentence. A bare branch leaned into the frame on the right, almost black against the soft wash behind it, and below the metal railing the town spilled down the slope in scattered roofs and small lit windows. In the distance the volcano sat under a heavy ceiling of cloud, more suggestion than shape. Later I walked a stretch of road above the valley. Another bare tree, this one alone against the sky, a power line cutting clean across the pink. The guardrail was cold under my hand. I stood there longer than I meant to. There was nothing happening, really. Just the day letting go of itself over the hills, and the small sound of my own breathing while it did. I thought, walking back, that some places do not ask you to do anything. They only ask you to be there while the light goes.