They buried their dead so high
the graves are specks on the cliff-face.
They imagined ancestors watching
over their comings and goings.
Fingers pointing upward they'd name
great-grandparents, sensors of daybreak's first impulse,
approaching weathers, who now voiced thoughts
in thunder, directed lightning, conducted stars.
Inside the crevices a puzzle of bronze bracelets, shell beads
circling what was clavicle, axe heads clinking on metatarsal.
To reach a geological hour all they had to do
was lie still, while rain seeped through limestone.