Clouds low around the ankle

Some cirrus were low around the ankle
like dust spun off from the diaspora ahead
A ravine was to be reached...
the colours of water were everywhere.
Two words stuck in her head, revolving in rhyme...
Wool and fuel; fuel and wool; wool and fuel...
"New ideas in old clothes."

My mantra, she mused.

A yard of altitude, she been informed, was an increment removed from air pressure at sea level. She, Marianna, was a sea-level person; despite her swiftness of ascension and her acclimatisation to reduced Pascals.

That was ok - she still had dried fruit in her pocket. She had the guise of a pastel-rendered spy. No, she would not be burnt - even from this impossibly long distance away. There was the horizon, the sky at its rim. Too so from above peeking so too was the sun's brim. Peaking beneath the sun's brim, the Andes were peaking. The disconnect was considered. Low clouds itching around the ankle. "New ideas from old ideas." Subconscious itching - "Old thoughts from new ideas."

Her feet taking her into the sunset, a timelessness descended. She experienced a feeling of being outside the scene. No longer in Bolivia, but of being a part of a work of art. In pastel shades, a subject.

"New clothes from old imaginings." Another mantra for travelling she considered.

They had left her far behind - no hope now to catch them up.