Standing on a stump,
he talked of Peru
and the mountains
that pierce violet clouds.
I am the hawk. Watch me soar.
He spread his arms and spun,
his poncho whirling,
his hair sleek ribbons
in twilight.
I belong there, he said.
I want to go back.
Raising his arms he vanished
to a valley of orchids,
plying rivers and waterfalls
to play reed flutes and dance.
Ready? he asked.
Kneeling in the dry, yellow grass,
he placed a small seed
on my tongue,
starting to sing,
as the sky descended
and headlights glared
on distant streets.
