These are called buttress tree roots.
I thought they were fascinating.
OK, take note of that bird because she's in the next poem.
Does anyone here still read Pedro Paramo,
the great book by Juan Rulfo, the Mexican writer.
If you haven't ever read Pedro Páramo, treat yourself.
Anyway, Getting Away.
"We sidewind inside clouds along ridgelines
dividing waters that shed east from waters that shed West.
In Paramo, which I know only from Pedro,
the Paramo from Comala, hometown so hot dead folks
arriving in Hell go back to get their blankets.
In the Talamancas, rufous-naped sparrows shove mashed-up worms,
beak to beak.
We glide down, down, to the Tarcoles river,
where 20 crocs per kilometer make their ancient living
except here at the bridge where dozens of huge ones snap
and shove, chomp down junk that people throw.
Around the bend, spoonbills rosy and plump strain a rivermuck.
By treadless tires, wood storks hunker, shoulders hunched.
Quick plovers and stilts pace cuneiform messages.
Green herons call, call downriver then
follow their voices.
Lone royal egret paces very near to half-submerged relics
plastered in mud.
They're sharp toothed, zap fast, fuerte.
But she can lift up pout of silt and soar."