Lyric for the Llama Lady

Six years ago, I left teaching to come work at the H. E. Butt Foundation with Mr. Butt, Keith, Dan, and Vicki. Vicki is an unassuming woman who somehow managed to keep a spirit of peace and teamwork between some very volatile personalities (including me). She also raises Llamas. Today, she is retiring, and this is for her.

We are no Machu Picchu tour here.
Our hills are small, our rivers green and slow.
We pave over the ruins of grandpa’s peers
to make room for car lots and cell phones.
Llamas don’t know the difference. Saddle them,
burden them, the ideal of travel miniaturized
to work without complaint, miniaturized again
in hammered gold, a perfect figurine size.
Push one too hard, and she lies down, refuses
to rise. Or worse, she spits llama majesty
against the man, does whatever she chooses.
This camel cousin, this dogged corpus christi
has chosen us, watched over our bliss,
and now packs the load to better places than this.