You climb the ridge at dawn

You climb the ridge at dawn
dig small shallow holes with bare hands, the sun already hot on your shoulders
and on the top of your head

You make offerings
of dried herbs harvested near the river
shells
animal bones and teeth

a lock of your own hair

to the soil
to the air
to the water
to the ancestors
to the gods
to the earth herself

to the universe

you scratch constellations into the dusty ground
so the stars can see
that you understand their language

so they can read

what it feels like
to be here now

on this changing planet

A spider scrawls tracks across the ground
and over your hands

reminding you of thread
and silk
of weaving
and of tying knots

Of cocoons
and sticky webs

of the hunt

you lay on your back and look at the sky and think the word “pray”

but you are the only one that understands that word here.

The rest? they speak in tongues
in winds carried across seas and deserts
to quietly slip through your hair

you make offerings

you weep

and your tears make a paste of water and earth
a concoction, a remedy
a spell

you climb the ridge

you dig small, shallow holes

under the hot summer sun

at dawn.

photo by Natasha