Not all things that fall to the ground
are canceled— call it luck, call it
faith, call it the universe’s benign
indifference. I saw photographs taken
by a hiker in remote villages: among people
we would consider poor, beautiful and grave
arrangements of water buffalo horns strung
on house posts, end notes from a sacrifice.
Neither trophy nor spoils, but the labor
of humans alongside beasts, each at death
aspiring to translation in another sphere.