Nine goats scamper up the gnarly argan tree and graze it clean. They ingest the wrinkled fruit whole, though it’s the bitter pulp alone that rouses their appetite for more. Sated, they stare at the horizon till branches wear thin and fall. Farmers harvest goats’ droppings to extract the pit rich in kernels of oil. Haven’t you too wished yourself a goat perched punch-drunk on a linden tree, blasé about the gold you might shit, how it might serve both hunger and greed. Haven’t you goaded yourself to balance just a bit longer, chew on some fugitive scents, forget what a ditch the earth is.