Arriving at the Château

Long lines formed through the pass,
No one derelict to perform, yet the moment
Pushed us away from sport,
the glimmers of light
Already muted by the quiet of
Approaching fog from the north.

The hush of night awed the human spirit, now
A quieting in the soul, and
The horses sensed the solemnity
Of art, a marching painting, somber
And still.

Tasks remained, and shouts died,
The beasts quivering and snorting,
Not one pausing until we
Reached the dark stalls, only the
Shimmering heat perspiring off their backs.

Moments later, we rested, leaning against
The rough wood doors, then slowly
Climbing away, the smell of ancient ceremonies
Wafting breezes brought up from Mexico,
The distant mountains losing
Their blue paint now,
And rivulets of sweat
Dried by the wind squeaked
And puckered our skin.