Matlalcueyetl, the one with blue skirts lies beneath the moon, holding the land in a quiet embrace. The wind carries the promise of rain.
Matlalcueyetl rests on the horizon, quiet and steady, like a woman asleep. Her name, in Nahuatl, means “the one with blue skirts,” a trace of the time when her slopes carried streams and reservoirs, shaping the Tlaxcaltecas’ deep understanding of water.
That October night, she lay beneath the moon, wrapped in the damp breath of the Gulf, whispering rain into the waiting earth. In her stillness, in the wind threading through her ridges, I feel something ancient, something known. She is presence. She is home. And under her shadow, I am too.