we strung them together with fish line
clear as water.
And the beads,
small bones of birds,
rattled around our necks
while we dug more earth
from the dried pond.
Such clouds that could have risen
in formations, flying up
to put flesh back on the birds,
red organs drumming inside.
Bones which let air travel,
their absence left holes in the sky.
Beads made of bone, our vertebrae,
arms and legs
strung together beneath skin,
our own bones still fitting
mortar and pestle.
Our hands like the dry reeds
knotted together
could sweep all this away,
break the clear thread.