When their bodies had started into stone,
we lay them among the boulders
that had grazed the hillside, in a nest
for early sunlight, not far from the roaring tide,
in sight of the eagles’ perches,
in sight of their timber homes,
in sight of their fields,
stones away from their parents.
When their bodies had started into stone,
we left clothing, corn, arrows, bone knives
by their sides and pointed them along the path
of the returning sun, with our prayers
and our wishes built so high they would be seen
from the birth-places of mountains, rivers or stars;
they would know that we were waiting, all the generations
waiting, running like currents through the stones.
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