Bone Collectors
The giant gray ones plod through black heat and dust.
To honor the bones of loved ones.
Picking them up one by one
With tender trunks and tusks.
Something ancient dictates. The plodders must move on.
So, this chain of struggle and respect quietly moves along.
All of the watering holes are drying up or completely gone.
They must move further away from the bones of memory.
They must find that vein of silver amidst the parched blackness.
To drink heartily- to play in -to bathe in-to pray in.
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