Old Bones
Out there walking round, looking out for food, a rootstock, a birdcall, a seed that you can crack plucking, digging, snaring, snagging, barely getting by, no food out there on dusty slopes of scree— carry some—look for some, go for a hungry dream. Deer bone, Dall sheep, bones hunger home. Out there somewhere a shrine for the old ones, the dust of the old bones, old songs and tales. What we ate—who ate what— how we all prevailed. Gary Snyder