On our backs with a quivering of lungs, we paint the great herds into being, above and below. In the secrecy of caves, illumined, we create what we need to survive. An artist's hand on stone. A hunter's heart revealed. The bison's soul restored.
Death rides on the back of the black bull.
The bull's blood runs-the moon pulls its red tide out. And here in Altamira, the paint drips, the blood drips into underground pools of water. The young criminal drinks his coffee with cream so much sugar you could stand a spoon up in it. Ashlike crumbs of his devoured toast speckle the robust china dish with Rikers imprinted in gray on the white institutional glazing. On the counter next to his plate lie a dime and an Indian Head nickel, buffalo side up.