Sunday Stanza: A Hot Day Along Cria Way

It was ninety-two in the noonday sun,
When I got the call: “Doc, better run!”
“She’s down in the paddock, she’s pacing the pen—
I think that alpaca’s tryin’ again.”

Now llamas are loud, but alpacas are sly.
They’ll blink real sweet, then spit in your eye.
And this one? A diva. Big lashes, small grace,
Who made it real clear she disliked my face.

I arrived with a kit, sweat down my back,
The air was like soup and the paddock all cracked.
She groaned and she grunted and kicked at the sky,
With a look that said plainly: “You touch me, you die.”

Still, in I went with my best poker face,
Dodgin’ her toes in that tight little space.
One leg was stuck, the head just peeked,
The timing was bad, the heat at its peak.

A twist, a shift, and a careful slide,
I coaxed him out from the breech inside.
Tidy and lean with a mop of red fluff,
He hit the ground breathing — just tough enough.

She leapt to her feet with a screech and a glare,
Gave me a sniff like I’d messed up her hair.
Then turned on a dime, sniffed her boy,
And let out a sound that was oddly joy.

He wobbled and blinked in the summer haze,
Took three wrong turns, then found his way.
Latched on hard like he’d studied the plan,
And I wiped my brow with a shaky hand.

There ain’t no band, no medal to pin,
For coaxin’ life from where it’s been.
But now and again, you get to stand—
Sweaty and spit-on, covered in sand—
And witness something better than pay:
A cria born on a hot summer day.

DocBott