Sleeping in the Mountain

I thought the mountain remembered me,
she welcomed me back into her bosom,
arranging her green mattress, her pockets
full of dirt and rocks.
I slept as never before, a stone beneath my head,
nothing between me and the vast universe of stars
but my thoughts, rushing like waters
from the depths of the perfect river.
All night, I heard melodic calls—
the "co-quí" sound surrounding me, little frogs,
and the Nightjars, hunting in the dark Puerto Rican night.
All night, I tossed and turned as if in rushing waters,
grappling with the treacherous gloom. By morning,
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into deep, dark waters.