By Lynn Ciesielski In the morning mountain chill at a polished hardwood table just round enough for notebook, pen and inches of bare space, arc to center I shrink myself, eyes down then forward. Gliding back and forth from a boxy kitchen an aged dona invites herself into my morning. With a smile I order in mosaic Spanish, hoping her arepa betters the brown-black crumbly corn paste from yesterday’s Bogota vendor. When in seconds the Senora returns I re-arrange my table for juice and café con leche shrinking to a foreign world far larger than the self I bring, hat tree stacked with gaucho brims, felt, rattan, and alpaca phallic cactus in clay Muisca head, to adobe walls sturdy over centuries just a day next to Andes peaks. And the eggs, when they come, share the table with the best cheese-filled arepa and thick forearm of the hotel’s Senor whose chatter reminds me that here nothing is mine alone not table, nor sunrise, nor silence and though he’d offer all the huevos, arepas and café to any paying customer the true gifts of life could not be bought and even a pad-locked room in Columbia couldn’t bar entry to a scorpion. Contributor’s Note: LYNN CIESIELSKI is a former special education teacher who has devoted herself to poetry since retiring from teaching. She organizes and hosts the monthly Circleformance Reading Series at El Buen Amigo & LACA Non-Profit in Allentown, and is the author of the poetry collections “I Speak in Tongues” (Foothills Publishing, 2012) and “Two Legs Toward Liverpool” (Main Street Rag Publishing).