If it hadn't been for the bones
we passed around the circle that night
Fire crackled and flared by the cliff side
The little gypsy girl pointed to the sky
It was shooting star
Quietly, I sang a tune, alone
Sitting cross legged, Bo gave a sigh
His fingers gently plucked the guitar
The mother began to hum
Just lowly at first, and then high
Treetop swayed
and a flute began to play
Chris's hand slapped onto the skin
A repetitive thump and swish
Of palm, fingers and thumb
Little gypsy danced, arms in the air,
Skipping, wind in her hair
I took a deep breath
And the voices joined in
The rhythm of the drumbeat quickened
Our song was loud
There was a sound in the distance
Then in silence we listened
What was that strange sound
It wasn't a howl or a bark
No bird made that noise
Slowly and quietly, we began again.
A chant and a whistle, a song and a hum
circled around cracking flame and spark
Gradually, our voices raised
to the beat of a drum
Then again in the distance,
from somewhere down in the revene
That sound we heard earlier
from deep in the dark
surrounded by aspens
It wasn't an owl or even a wolf
That responded to the music
of our campfire scene
It wasn't a hoot or a howl
but more of a grunt and a bleat
That joined in to our song
at the crescendo of the drum beat
Each time we heard it
in silence we'd listen
What animal it was, we never could tell
Because the response to our silence,
Was silence as well.
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