as they trundle their burdens between the dark gray grassland
and whatever color eternity is. Their milk is sweet as orange
marmalade. They butcher easily, bleed-out quickly, and their meat
tastes like honey if you cut away the fat for candles that sparkle
and smoke the blackest black smoke. The camels of Somalia stampede
before storms despite the affection of their Gabran handlers, who weather
mile upon mile of wind and grit and weep against the scars on their eyes.