When pilgrims hear only music in sounds that mean something to those at home, there is no choice but to feel the way into prayer. One can watch for the right time to rise, to bow, to sit. One can listen for the lilt of psalms, hymns and readings. One might even glean a Christo, Maria or Amen, as clear young voices chant in single tones or one side after the other makes balance. Feeling all this, they move beyond listening. Like the winged choir perched on Asian pines nearby, pilgrim hearts draw in close, chirping into the silence, unable to resist the song.

“¡Más mezcla!, ”the masons cry and we mix sand, soil and cement.

Water dipped from drums pail by pail.

So many bricks. So much mortar.

Pail by pail we dry up a family’s only drinking, only washing.

“Toma la agua,”the mother says, risking all—“for my childrens”—to set a new foundation.

Tonight she will go to the stream,

pail by pail, starting again toward survival.

Tomorrow, “¡Más mezcla!,”and we will again risk with her

to build these children a home.