I am not finished,
the carver said in dreamtime
as he worked, carving diamond holes
on the underside of a beak
for a totem
to be raised that same night
in a town far away.
It had seemed complete
which is why the celebration was waiting
and the carver was still sitting on the hill
with a long drive ahead.
And I was encouraging,
trying to solve it,
to move him where he needed to go
but I was on a little train myself,
passing him on the hill,
climbing slowly upwards.
And now in daylight
with my pen
I feel poking at my throat,
the underside of my jaw,
and wonder about that beak,
whether it is attached
to a bird that will fly.