She wove in wind
and I could only watch
as her hair flowed like a swift river
about her face
and her hands knew the fibers’ story
before the finish.

When she started to sing,
it was a low keening meant for ancient stone
before the sacrifice.
She had no questions
as there was no quest better than now.

She shifted in growing dark
but there was no hesitation
in step or purpose
but an awareness of form.