In the caves of Lascaux the first painters
chanted the death of bulls.
A lovelorn Neanderthal
yearned to sing the song of birds.
So a bear lost his femur
for a flute with four holes.
On the beach one day there was a stranded whale—
whose skeleton soon made a lyre.
A poet strolling by heard the wind pluck
its tendons like strings.
Drums of taut hide
were pounded in war after war after war after war…
By the campfire, an idle archer
learned his bow could be something more.
William G. Gillespie lives and writes in Brooklyn. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Boats Against the Current, Red Eft Review, Olney Magazine, and The Drunken Canal.