He’d spent the morning finishing
a mural of a herd of antelope
on the back wall of the cave,
signing it with a hand print of oxides
that he blew through a hollow reed.
The fire had gone out during the night.
He dreaded spending the rest of the day
getting it going again, thanks to the dampness
of the fire wood that was left
and the loss of his best piece of flint.
Days ago (he had no idea how many)
his mate disappeared.
She went down to the river for a gourd of water
and never returned, probably
those damned hyenas again.
He thought maybe it was time
to consider moving in with the clan
that had built a village in the valley below
but he couldn’t see himself being happy
in one of those tiny rooms
among all those cro-magnons
who had grown too old
to feed themselves.
######
David Jibson lives and writes in Ann Arbor, MI, USA. His poetry has appeared in a number of journals and his book, Small Poems, was published in January of this year. He is retired from working in hospice.