Iglesa Nuestra Senora de Rosario. Pisco Elqui.
A small church populated by a sparse collection of worshippers. Geometric stained glass windows in blue, red, yellow and green; would have cast illuminated light on the audience had the sun been out. A dog with mixed parentage, Basset Hound recognisable, had a quilt of tan and black markings patterned over his white low riding body. He sniffs the font filled with holy water, but his height determines it's unavailability.
Guilded statues of Mary and Jesus and other saints populate the side walls, each with their own towering and slightly chipped gothic canopy.
The dog sits beside me and looks hopeful. I stroke his long brown velvet ears.
The priest walks to his alter and kisses the cloth, the book. He has a Madonna microphone clasped to his head. The sound is muffled and slightly distorted.
The dog is lying down. Dreaming. Twitching imagining I'm not sure what.
The congregation stands, kneels, sits, stands, kneels, sings, gives offerings to the two children holding red satin bags. The priest moves down the centre aisle, talking, gesturing with open palms, gently making eye contact with his flock.
The patchwork dog wakes, stretches and moves to the end of the pew. The old man with the hat shoos him irritably and moves it along with a small kick.
The people stand, ready for communion, the wine, the wafers.
The dog and I discreetly make our exit and sit amongst the trees in the Plaza.
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