The woman does not feel sorry
for herself, but her beauty is wasted here,

not another human being but her own child
seen for days across this mountain.

When the hunters passed through—
is it wrong?—she was happy and ashamed

to be happy, wearing firelight and a far-off
look in her eyes. The woman loves

her husband. She is a good woman,
be sure, hair braided and coiled tight.

But no one watches her. Even the girl
has the hawk, its unwavering gaze

cast down as shadow. At least the girl
can see the darkness on her skin

as fierce devotion, can feel clothed
when each day even the trees are more bare.