Ancient beyond knowing, hands lifted the layered stones from  
moon-dark earth, charred with blood, rained with tears to a terrible
beauteous shade below the swirling tracery of planets and stars.

Mourners' cries were caught in the wave's curl, the wind-harp
of a reed that echoes at mid-dark.  They sought consolation from stone
as they raised the limestone slabs, straight as backs, straining beneath

the immeasurable weight of loss. Hands lifted the singular capstone,
angled it, stark and ageless—a grey wing raised against the aged sky.
Silent, they built the tomb, the gaping maw, to cup the whole of their grief.

Brigit Truex  shares her home in the northern California Sierra foothills with a much-traveled cat and a changing cast of four parakeets. Her work has appeared in Atlanta Review, The Aurorean, Canary, and Three Lights, as well as in anthologies such as I Was Indian, Sacramento: 100 Best Poems, and Vwa: Poems for Haiti.  The author of four collections of poetry, Satuit Seasons, Of A Feather, Leaf by Leaf, and A Counterpane Without (Rattlesnake Press), she is of mixed heritage, including Irish, French-Canadian, and Abenaki-Cree. She is founder of Red Fox Poetry and is a member of Native Writers Circle of the Americas and Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers.