Izcuchaca

Passing through this Peruvian
mountain town, I momentarily
glimpse a typical village lad
sitting on a plank bridge
with his bare feet dangling
over a silt-filled stream,
who eats an ear of tan corn
with ocher-colored speckles,
and the boy’s dusky skin

and his monotone clothes
and those worn boards
and that flowing water
are all the same shade
of tarnished copper
which pervades this
Andean farming area.