A Modern Llama

You left the stone corral behind,

drawn by the frantic whisper of ferns

and the sudden, intoxicating smell of wild mint.

Now, the Andes have folded away their familiar peaks,

swallowed by a rising tide of emerald.

Your woolly ears twitch at the snap of a twig—

was it a condor’s shadow or a stalking puma?

You lift a padded hoof, hesitant,

stepping deeper into the cathedral of pines

where the sunlight only falls in broken coins.

Around you, the forest breathes in green rhythms:

moss creeps like green smoke up the mahogany trunks,

and ancient roots knot beneath you like gnarled fingers,

curious to see what strange, long-necked creature

has wandered into their quiet kingdom.

You pause by a rushing creek,

seeking your reflection in the silver water,

but see only the dark canopy overhead.

Your hum becomes a soft, questioning breath

that dissolves into the damp air, unanswered.

Do not tremble, traveler of the high trails.

Though the horizon is choked by leaves,

and the mountain wind has forgotten your name,

the moss is soft beneath your cloven toes,

and even the lost are held by the earth.