There is little for the archeologist to do here
The bones are strewn about
carelessly exposed
hand-me-downs from another age
They are huge,
so we climb them
balance across a leg or arm
peek through a pelvic ruin
They were mountains
and now they are not
What beauty they held is concentrated,
layer to wasting layer.
Defiant,
decaying in the sea bed
that washed away their skin,
but victorious, there is no more sea.
Their second coming, strange,
haunting–as bones should be,
is more dramatic than their first life
as mere earth.
So they are patient and wait
little endings–seamed by rain, wind,
an occasional child–they can survive.
But a valley of fire is a death befitting bones
Valley of Fire, Nevada