Distant clouds swoon upon slender mountains, a cathedral dome glitters, and in the midst of a small, sunlit square, a dazzling tang of fruit flesh explodes on my tongue. I am skewering fresh lime-soaked, chilli-sprinkled watermelon and cucumber into my rejoicing mouth - Hail to Mexican street cuisine!
Hail also to the deep black eyes of thunderstorm and rainbow that sparkled joy from a wizened landscape of wrinkles - the beautiful old lady who served me the fruit.
Yet already Oaxaca city is a dream, I am light passing through prism days, where polychromatic refractions of experience stream onto the palette of my mind.
And words, paint brushes though they are, give only a faint illusion of colour.
