We warmed ourselves by the fire
Her black eyes mist and smoke
I made a joke
She bristled
And smiled just to break the tension
“Old Creature, where’s your head? Down the River?”
“And back again” she said
Her whiskers quiver
“There’s things in my mind
Myths and spirits;
Fingerprints.
In the charcoal dust
There’s an image
Suggested.
A wave folds into itself;
Sound compounds upon sound;
Words lose their power to tell.
I am beyond all your help”
She ran her finger down a burnt log
To mark her head in mourning
I mirrored her dramatic gesture
Said a silent prayer
Then smiled
To break the tension
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