the bones of a child will be found
curled near the tracks of a migrating herd
of antelope

the child, of a now gone branch 
of people was not homo sapiens
but had hopes of becoming a mother
and had dreams in which she was flying

the wheels turn and everything passes
the sun comes closer to its metamorphosis
and another moth, the last of its kind dies
unknown and uncatalogued

listening to the waking up of a hungry child
through thin apartment walls 
and the waves that beat a coastline
are precious and singular
to the simple practioner

she gives all keeping nothing
before the red dust can settle
she gladly lives simply
before the fire of greed
can consume her

how can she desire to hear applause
of fame
or the tinkling of jewelry
when she has heard
the yip of a coyote