Alpacas teach me about stillness.
They are of a divine intelligence.
They exert no more effort than is needed.
They move at a steady pace. They respond to their internal cues: eat, digest, work, play, rest. Most of these are eat and rest. Least of these is work.
They respond to one another. Violence is uncommon. So is close bonding and attachment. The alpacas are just intimate with whomever is closest; briefly, though not without care. Nuzzles, nose to nose. Butt sniffs. Laying down next to each other.
Next to me, an adolescent black calf nuzzles the shrunken, dried teat of a brown sow alpaca with a striking white blaze across her nose. She turns ninety degrees and lays down. The calf barely moves her head away to not be squished by mama's tired body. Then she lays down to the right of her mother. Their ribs touch between hipbone and belly. Their necks lean slightly toward one another.
I suck on my tongue, my dry lips gripping the mushy end of a small joint. I loosen my jaw and stare into the valley. To the north, a dog sound. Nearer alpaca footsteps shuffle in the sand. For some reason, the generator is running. It's an aggressive hum.