Coca leaves, cinnamon tea, and chocolate filled with marzipan,
we eat.
Crumbs from sweetbreads bought at bus terminals at 4 am,
we drop behind us.
For cold beer, made in Cusco,
we hand over coins and paper.
Beside us, women weave while walking.
We open our Russian books to mountain air
and on stale buses, whose saving grace, their windows,
frame the terraces the Incas wrought from soil, water, will.
We hike
dusty trails and canyons veined with gold.
We tour
Cathedrals made of white volcanic rock.
Hostels house us.
We buy tickets, take combis, slurp soup.
We stay up late and sleep through days.
We talk in broken Spanish, enthusiasm whole.
A condor swoops at us in the distance,
and we take his cue: tonight, we'll dance.
CDL
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