A Twist On Extricate
Exact accounts are difficult. We disagree on their attire,
their tactics, the code they recited to keep themselves
in sync. What we can trace is their path, the odd arc
of their travels, the exact spot they landed, the antenna
they erected and how long they sat, quiet, peaceful,
like old photographs in an attic. They left us a treat,
a brush, an idea of how to make ink from mud.
And so we create. Horses on walls or wolves,
an irate enemy, the blood, the soul dropping.