When their bodies are cold and stony,
we lay them among the boulders on the hillside,
a resting place within sight of their homes,
fields and children; in the company of their parents, ancestors.
We leave clothing, corn, arrows, bone knives by their sides
and align them with the returning sun.
Our prayers flutter on strings, clicking for the attention
of the gods who gave birth to the mountains,
rivers and stars; chattering till we, ourselves, arrive.
They expect us, and all the generations coming;
we are currents, the stones oversee our passing,
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