The Fusa Finca

Sunday night it was raining in the mountains south of Bogota. Coming over the top we hit the fog and then a drizzle. What with the road being worked on, large tracts without lines, I was glad it wasn’t me driving. We were in a car the which one starts by pushing a button. Has no key, just a card-like thing in a slot. First time for me. So we went down to Fusagasuga.

Warm nights with insects are good for reading, aren’t they? The solitude’s possibilities for tranquility are the best thing. My wife’s not one for staying up late, and I don’t encourage her. It was a good time for reading Charles Williams and I finished the Arthurian poetry. The best thing about Williams is how you always feel he fills you up with unusual ideas and strange images, besides the insights.

There I saw a great, massive bull of the particular breed the farm’s owner’s father developed. They’re the long-eared warmer weather sort. Reddish-brown, hump-backed, and with eyes dull with sheer power was this bull. Left me most uneasy though fascinated. It felt like I was looking at the archetype, except the bull had no horns. Is the archetype the one you can’t take by the horns? Wish I could have looked at him a long time–from a safe place. Couldn’t help thinking I’d sort of walked into The Place of the Lion with that Bull. And then I started seeing many butterflies.

Guayacanes are tall, with shaggy bark, small ferny foliage and purple flowers. They were all in bloom. There are some large and industrious ants that harvest the scattered flowers. They send some nearly half-inch chaps along to cut segments from the flowers and then haul them back to their lair. So busy are these ants, they wear out little paths in the grass. That was an odd walk–I saw the cows, then the ants, then the bull who’d escaped, and then noticed the butterflies. Saw a rooster after that, a fighting cock. One always wonders at the red comb.

In the distance are some mountains whose color changes, you notice them too. They’re green in splendid sunlight, but with a haze in the distance comes a smoky blue. Pointy, with the slope leading up to the summit smooth and as even as a tipped table. There’s a lot to notice about mountains as one dreams and dreams of the archetype.

Insects and foliage prosper there, making it a good place to take in the fecundity of Charles Williams’ imagination.

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