His family had been red and wore
The clouded suits worn by those
Who could not mark the truth
With words but bore it rather
In the patterns of colors on their horses
They speak by gathering groups of these
Beautiful horses into certain configurations.
They run them past one another
Changing their order on every run so that
The patterns are read differently
Each time. Some are so skilled
That they can write music with the horses.
When we came to them the voyages
Had been going on for quite some time.
Things were being traded that would
Not be understood for many, many years.
We asked which way the children
Had gone, what they had carried
With them and their ages.
It took two full days of horse
Display for that information to be conveyed.
We have been on the trails now
For over four months. Everything
Seems just beyond our understanding,
Slightly out of reach. It is very
much like mining a poem to get
Any information. In the evenings
We sit and watch the light depart.
We listen for hoofbeats through the dark,
The cries of wolf-like creatures,
Flames of red eyes circling our
Campfires, sure that we will fail
To find the children.
We find ourselves forgetting their names,
How we became separated,
Why we speak the way we do today.