A smooth sternum
bare but for beads
An adornment of home
of west
of ritual and symbol
Red, yellow, green
A vision as ancient as the first humans
Beads like the small visible bones
surrounding them…
on a field of deep marks
made of ink and disease and sun
Years
The marks tell her story of land, young land
Surrounded by the tools of the ancients
before her there and of bones
and the story of light…
The setting sun in the eye of a storm
the blue that she drowned in
on just one day
Her marks of seas and of homes

They meet at the clear green river
under the white hills
A desperate respite
Their searching, halted
The hunt, paused
to drink, the soft nuzzle of a neck
same as every animal will do
that’s not yet born
on the banks where the elders did the same
the first people of this land
that they share, briefly
The people they follow more closely than they realize
Tracks are retraced
Paths of walking, and caress
Two animals of wild dark hair
like midnight
and light eyes
like morning
Sun spots
Draped in the marks and bones and water
of time

December 19, 2023