She walked with her Father
		or she did not.
Mother would not.
Centuries were before her
				and behind.
Mount Ampato and its cousins
		lay in peace, in snow, in sky 
				as blue as the celestial heavens.
She waited for the priests
		whose own tired bodies had become raiments
				they wished they could discard.
		whose temples were empty today
				waiting
				as if pausing
				for breath,
				for offerings.
The wind blew ancient songs through the mountains.
Her dress flapped against her leg
but the silver pin held the shawl close to her.
She continued to walk -
the City of Cuzco now smaller than the gold figurine the priests had 
		given her to play with
				seven cycles of the sun ago
		when her mother brought her to the temple
		because she refused to sleep
				crying out every night
						that she did not want to die.
How different it was today.
Today she challenged the mountain God of Nevada Ampato
		to leave her City in peace.
Cori was coming over the mountain.
She could feel the small stones under her sandals
and thought of the luster within some of them
		that would make fine beads for a necklace
				made by her own hands.
		She could twist the hemp in the field into string.
She did not think of sara, chu-o, or quinua -
		was it because the air was so thin,
				it was as intoxicating as chicha?
Instead, she thought of Little Sister
				who begged her to wear Little Sister's best alpaca shawl
				for her walk this morning.
		and of Little Brother who would not speak to her for anger.
But because of her walk,
Little Brother would grow to be a man
		although he might never understand
as the priests, who were behind her and drew closer, understood.


			Brandywine
			6/5/96