after many months of sleeping
i awake in the mountains of navarra:
dusty & feeling like a grain sack:
limp & weary of travel.

sometimes a girl comes & gives me a little water
--as much as her family can spare.
i thank her each time but note the distrust in her eyes.
perhaps it is the length of my hair,
or the folksongs i sing in my sleep.
her father sits in a corner, smoking, cursing me in spanish.
(things like "**** americano")
i contemplate telling him i came from canada
--but i don't think it would matter much.
they've already burned my clothes,
or sold them, maybe. (novelty items.)
i think the girl brought me a robe of some kind
while i was sleeping (it's loose & very comfortable)