Pilgrims

The bus arrives in the orchid heat,

in the place where coffee grows

like rubies in the valley’s black soil.

We disembark, walk in twos so we

don’t slip on the genesis mud.

The woman next to me carries

three cellphones as gifts for cousins

and a bucket of chicken to share.

How is it that I have come this far

with nothing, that I am empty-

handed in this country of blessings?

A procession of rust-colored macaws

glides above us. Their ashy shadows

draw crosses onto all of our heads.