A Dig Near Black Mesa, 1984

A DIG NEAR BLACK

MESA, 1984

The bones

don’t resist.

They lie

where they were left—

not hidden,

just waiting

for the right hands.

Shards,

teeth,

flaked obsidian—

fragments of a story

no one can tell

without guessing.

Sunrise

throws blood-colored light

across the mesa.

It climbs the ridge

like fire

reaching back

through the body.

I kneel,

dust in my mouth,

hands in the grit

of what remains—

a jawbone,

a tool,

the edge of a pot

meant to carry

something warm.

This place

held breath once—

laughter,

argument,

song.

Now the wind

fills it all.

And I know—

we’ve been here

so long.

And barely

at all.

SCOTT SIMPSON