There's nothing quite like swinging in a hammock in the Peruvian jungle.

The warm breezes ebb and flow,

The rushing Rinquia River water does her mesmerizing magic on my psyche

The palm fronds bow and twist and turn

praying with the sun,

casting shadows of intricate design this way and that

From where I rock, jungle trees mark a triangle of sky

creamy with blue and white.

I watch the motion of the clouds

I mark the path of the sun

I listen deeply to the sounds of the day and of the night

And of the magical inbetween times, when the symphony is most poignant,

Releasing what has been,

Anticipating what is to come,

Honoring what is now.

In the rocking and swaying, my body becomes familiar with the rhythms

of jungle life.

I could rock indefinitely it seems,

while the many-colored jungle birds

and infinite variety of insects sing to me

and mariposas flutter by.

Maybe I rock for all the times our mothers couldn't or didn't . . .

With no need to sleep, and no need to wake,

Here in my riki-tiki tambo, I rock.