I sat criss crossed on the top
of a rock before it tipped,
an alpaca spots me from afar.
I see his brother bathe in the dirt,
his cotton ball fur soaks in the Sun,
rubs himself with the color of the Earth,
squints his eyes and whispers to his brother –
This is a disguise.

The fresh mountain water streams
below me, dissolves into breeze
the hillside crumbles where it was once cut
and layered with stones ripped out of the ridge
but now the Earth is taking back
her natural shape, round and wise.
This was an Inca trail, after all.

I ran into a human skull.
lying beside it was,
a fresh bouquet of flowers
a box of lucky strikes,
a few empty water bottles,
the skull was fairly ripe
and to this day it haunts me still,
that skull that whispered –
This is a disguise.

Yet even amongst the plastic residue,
the burning embers of the holocene,
the battery acid in the belly of my backpack,
I looked to where it would squint its eyes,
and It felt ancient.

Corn fields that peek from the tops of these hills
cower beneath a great mountain that speaks
through symbols sculpted in its face,
I squint my eyes –
This is a disguise.