Derzno, "Hohler Fels," 2011
An exhalation, detoured at fresh hollows where quill knobs had marked the spot to place the awl, pierce the bone, open “o”s for fingertips. Breath takes wing in a rising half-note, descending overtones, like bird song. Who disassembled the eater of the dead, pulled its feathers out until barren bone gleamed, then thought to call down the sky and sing through it? Who put this bone flute in a midden, broken, buried, as we’ll all be, when all our songs are gone?