El Dorado
is missing.
But at noon, the
streets turn gold
and the tiendas
are colored
like bleached bone.
One strolls through
July roads,
saluting conquerors
or wanderers
far from home.
It lives on
Horizons
and sunsets adrift,
a meandering
silhouette.
But now, the
owl soars close,
under the streetlamps.
Darting in
and out.
At midnight,
streets are black
and El Dorado
is again
gone.
We missed it
along the way.