She ran into the camp,
Braids streaming behind like ribbons
Determined to be
For a time.
The women raised their heads,
Weary from tending to
Crops and overtired babies.
This time of year was plentiful in many things but
Not in time.
“What is it, child,” her elder asked,
The rhythm of rocking the cradles of milk
Adding a lilt to her aged voice,
Raspy from smoky fires and chaff
“Help,” the young one breathed,
Needy of air and flooded by sudden doubt.
“Speak up, child,” her mother snapped,
Tight with worry for a girl-child
And the shadows
of another time.
The camp stilled.
A baby woke in cry.
“Come help,” the lass repeated, indignant,
No longer shy.
“The creek rises and a cow is screaming
Across the arroyo.
We have no time!”
For the dVerse prosery challenge