Rhythm and Bleat

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.