At dawn the bells sing,

breaking the pilgrims from their deep sleep.

Chattering begins among them as they stir.

Downstairs, la dueña prepares food and hot drink,

eager to greet today’s flock before they take weary

flight again towards the horizon.

Groggy but grateful,

here they come down the stairs now, the morning’s light

illuminating each stiff body and colorful backpack.

Just around the corner from Santiago but still days away,

kilometers are no match for these strays. 

Long forgotten is the word “pain,” and

more blisters form than fade but

no longer can we pilgrims wait.

Onward, old friend, not far from the inn are we, or

pintxos, or bread. Our

quest nears its end today, but we’ll

rise when the sun peeks its bright yellow head over red

shingles and shimmies its way to our beds.

Taped feet will carry us through vineyards and streams,

up hilltops, up mountains, we’ll pass through unseen.

Vagabonds,

walking but not wandering.

eXiled from our cocoons each morning, sent on our way, we

yearn to feel our feet on grass soft and green. As we walk,

zen creeps into our chests like ivy reaching for the sun as it gleams.