In and out again. Light falls from the western sky. In she spins, and warms. The only sounds are the thu, thu, thu of her heart, haauusssh of her blood. Feet find holds in air.
Hair climbs the neck.
This night, this water, these sounds tell the girl how the great mother danced her children into being. Grass, skin, hair, and stars tell her all she will ever need to know in order to live. It is as though I am kneading dough, this reunion, folding from the corners, back into the center, again, a rhythm of generations, one folding in on, giving itself over to, the new, and the new going forth to its own corners. It is that I am kneading dough and everything I've been and everyone from whom I've come is with me, against my hands. I thought there should have been seven, that I too would have worn a shawl like the folded wings of the butterfly against the cold, would have thought my bones would break in that brittle morning as I leaned against an opposite beam and looked past the sand and the sea to the horizon.