Dancing In Pamporova

Long limbed storks
line dance above our ancient coach,
leading us from the torrid plain
up up up past Pazardzhik.

"I'm Danni, an aerobics teacher from Queensland,
It's my first visit to Europe, I'm so excited!"
The birds wheel off at Plovdiv
grapevining their legs,
flying back to Sofia.
Our coach creaks onwards, upwards
 to cool Pamporova.
 
"I am Nanneke, a student from Netherlands."
We forge chains up the mountain path
dancing to Pamporova.
Like an ancient who will not, cannot
leave the dance, the coach toils, pants, slows, clings
to the narrow path, windows clutched by pines.  

"Az cim Sylvie, ot Bulgaria."
"Frederique, je viens de Paris. Enchante."
The coach leaps ruts, potholes, boulders
almost slips down the mountain.
 New York Nina announces
"I came last year to the dance course. There's a fort,
a Roman fort to the left, if you press your face against the window you might just see." 
The others crane their necks.
"And Orpheus, you know, that guy who played flute in the legend, have you heard of him? -
Well, he was born here, you know, the storks carried him to Pamporovo."

"Does she mean born or borne?" whispers Danni.
"Wilhelm, von Berlin."
"Ismi Abdullah, min el-Kahira.  Wa inti?"
I, I am Zhanna, from London, via Terevan and Roma roads.

Midnight musicians tune up in the hotel hall
each instrument a poem -
kavul, gaida, tamboura, tapan, gadulka -
and we, dancers from so many lands
form circles, join hands.

Is that a flute I hear at night,
as dawn silvers the sky?
So soft, so sweet, so clear,
so distant.
Two weeks dance  dream time
whirl to the last night concert, wine, addresses, promises,
"I'll email every week" "Je t'ecrirai"  "Ich schreib dich".
In the dawn  down pineshadowed mountains,
the bumpy coach rechnitsas
one two three four five jolt jolt one two three four five
jolting down to Pazardzhik

where waiting storks  rise from their watch
escorting us with Balkan wing beats
one two pause three
edna dva stop tri
down to Sofia airport.
We stretch, hug, kiss, promise eternal friendship, heave bags.
A silver grey feather whirls dancing to my feet
souvenir from a stork.