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.