the south American Way

Vacation Time


In a field alone a carob tree has grown wide and tall
it preens a bit, but I sense its loneliness. In the next
field trees jostle for space, roots entwined happy
poverty? Yet In the noon heat it’s under the big tree
sheep come to seek shade, I joined them sat on
a stone smoked a cigarette, a ewe sneezed pointed
to a sign on the tree: “No smoking, bad for the wool.”
I spat on my cigarette, can’t risk a bushfire, opened
my lunch box, gave an apple to the ewe, and since
my coffee was black I milked it. I told my flock that
the sheep in Honduras, which give the whitest wool,
has taken the best grazing land, and no one seems to
care. They chewed and chewed, some even burped,
but no one made a comment.