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Poem	THEY have painted and sung the women washing their hair, and the plaits and strands in the sun, and the golden combs and the combs of elephant tusks and the combs of buffalo horn and hoof. The sun has been good to women, drying their heads of hair as they stooped and shook their shoulders and framed their faces with copper and framed their eyes with dusk or chestnut. The rain has been good to women. If the rain should forget, if the rain left off for a year— the heads of women would wither, the copper, the dusk and chestnuts, go. They have painted and sung the women washing their hair— reckon the sun and rain in, too.
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