Patty

Like
the villager who
prized the wing bone from the red-crowned crane,
smoothed it,
drilled seven holes,
and a smaller one
below the last,
to fix an off-key note;
who rested the flute against her lip,
blew across the opening,
covered and uncovered the holes,
fingers flitting like a hummingbird
exploring the octaves
primordial poetry
sloughing the sharp edges off
that Neolithic place—

I, too, hunt the sweet songs.