His Blue Period

dusk. from the plains below
the stink of hides as animals
gather at the water to drink,
senses alert, the water a delight.
the sun hidden by that mountain to the west.
he adds a daub of mud-red clay
to the hoofprint of a hunted ox,
wildebeest -some sort of creature
felled by their cunning,
their down-wind stealth.
the blue on the water looks like the sky.
clouds ripple past.
it took a while to get the fire
up to strength but he added was needed,
branch & stump from his stockpile until
they all could feast
& now the others are cavorting,
a riot of howls that keep the darkness out.
full-bellied they'll be good for nothing all morning,
rutting or at one another's throat.
he'll have to wake to see they're still alive.
meanwhile he has this rock walls faint declension to consider-
she gestures charcoal but he's unsure,
is blood or moonlessness ever that complete?
hovering thus he hungers for the shape
of something other than his fingers with which
to tell the story.
his shadow,he sees, is acquiesing so he concedes the point,
adds a little finger-print of last nights warmth
to the trailing hindleg, then to the spear
he is yet to make the sound for.