The Seneca carry stories in satchels.
They are made of pounded corn and a grandmother’s throat.
The right boy will approach the dampness of a forest with a sling, a modest twining wreath for the bodies of birds. A liquid eye.
When ruffed from leaves, the breath of flight is dissolute.
What else, the moment of weightlessness before a great plunge?
In a lost place, a stone will find the boy.
Give me your birds, she will say, and I will tell you a story.
A stone, too, admits hunger.
The boy is willing. Loses all his beaks.
What necklace will his grandmother make now.
The sun has given the stone a mouth. With it, she sings of what has been lost.
She sings and sings and sings.
The boy listens, forgets, remembers. Becomes distracted.
The necklace will be heavy, impossible to wear.