qarrtsiluni

Last night something left a sign.
It passed and pressed the earth, it marked the path,
It left behind this posting pointing east

Last night something descended from the hills
and rolled right through this valley, flowing under starlight
Where night-bleached grasses bent before its weight and whispered down
Where cooling muds and darkened sands spread canvases to dry

It stepped, or stooped or stopped,
Impressed the page with name or long notation,
A footnote, or an author’s felted seal.

At every crossroads, or at oddly jutting stone,
Something scattered its production, claiming title, grant and deed,
Claiming kinship, pledging troth,
Then moving on.

What do you want? A written invitation?
Last night something left its sign.

by Diana Hunt

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