Old Bones 
Out there walking round, looking out for food,
a rootstock, a birdcall, a seed that you can crack
plucking, digging, snaring, snagging,
         barely getting by,
 
no food out there on dusty slopes of scree—
carry some—look for some,
go for a hungry dream.
Deer bone, Dall sheep,
         bones hunger home.
 
Out there somewhere
a shrine for the old ones,
the dust of the old bones,
         old songs and tales.
 
What we ate—who ate what—
         how we all prevailed.

                         Gary Snyder