The Orchids

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YOU CANNOT LEARN the nature of man from the sunrise at El Caliz. It begins with the merest suggestion of light, then a shimmering incision slices along the ridges of the far mountains, outlining them in a thin, silver band. From this band, a wave of Prussian blue rises slowly, brightening the upper sky and yet allowing it to retain the muted impenetrability of porcelain. The urns of antiquity had this contradictory delicacy, an opaque flatness that was at the same time vivid, almost diaphanous, and as elusive as romance.

When the first wave of heat strikes the earth, it sears the moisture still clinging to the palmetto leaves, and the river receives its cue to run. Throughout the night it has appeared motionless, a mute, dark pool, turbid as spilled blood. Now it seems to awaken, inhaling the first warm air, drawing in its sides, then releasing them, the waters lapping against the mud bank in small waves, rhythmic as a pulse. Mist rises from the water, leaching the darkness from its body and leaving the surface a cool, impenetrable green, smooth as polished marble. For a moment a curious stillness pervades as the mountain, river, and jungle harmonize in the primeval quiet. But this comforting natural camaraderie is all illusion, for by noon the sun will have turned the mountains a smoldering pumice and bleached the sky to the color of living bone.

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