Thursday, April 5, 2018

James Walton #95 Incan Morning

Alpacas in mantra
a humming of Ave Maria.
My hands cup chocolate
they caloop over,
to scent my tribe
or smell the different milk.
In the yards together
our final conversation,
before they move to a higher hill.
New staff to teach the oldest ways
whisper in their spines,
of the long neck of Huallaga
beneath the big hat of Chopicalqui.
If only they had listened
for the sound of Spanish horses.


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