when did she find the time
to paint them--these bison
leaping across the stonewall
after the hunting and
gathering of the day was done,
fingertips purpled with
tints ground down to
a powder, the
fireflames slashing the
night air random
punctuations illuminating her
slow and steady work, each
stroke a prayer for a
kill to furnish meat for
the children, their bulk
brought down by sharp-tipped
spears under the roasting sun,
limbs torn from limbs, blood
rushing, red, into a gulley,
awaiting the sear of flames,
their forms galloping still
across the cavewalls
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