Above Cochas Chico, Peru, June 1979

			I
When I get above the tree line,
a torrent spews out of a cave mouth,
thunders down cliff-fall.

I make the sierra, its hip-high grasses,
spongy bogs. Three times I happen upon boulders
chiseled into rough altars where potatoes 
are laid out to freeze at night, dry under sun.

There are thousands of varieties of potatoes in Peru,
some violet, others yellow as jasmine.
Spindly, ovoid, round, all feel good in the palm.

Finally, I reach a ridge, look back 
at a parade of alpacas led by one man
who is the size of a leaf. Bells dangle
off the alpaca’s necks, ting thin in thin air.

I swallow canteen water, drift 
along a compass vector, close to sky, 
upside down upon the world's vast ceiling.

		II
I have walked away from the Altiplano
where families eke out a living,
 
to go toward a site that has no face, 
no desire, no compassion. 
I stop by a lake, half-frozen, whey blue.

To the south lies an escarpment
covered with a rust-colored brush.
A half-mile east, sheer cliff-drop,
impassable. Behind me the west
is stone, wind and scrub. The north
 – unknown, silent, boundless.

I lie down. I sleep. Before dawn
rings the mountains awake, 
a snow goose honks four times.
                        

Cochas Chico, Peru, June 1979

In his courtyard, Leoncio Veli
carves stories into gourds.

At ten a.m. he etches a family of vicuna
that graze on a ridge. Sun arcs shadow around him

lean, then thick, then lean again. 
His face is buffed bronze, marked, furrowed. 

On the gourd sitting next to Leoncio
there is a band complete with bass, accordion and tuba.
Every day he wears the same trousers,
shirt, sweater, jacket, all colorless.

Leoncio adds tonal shade to his carvings 
by rolling embers on a stick of ash over his etchings.

Two houses down, his brother does the same.
It is painstaking work, done slowly. 
Leoncio is as quiet as his mountain.