One time I lost words. They slipped out and were buried under sand, finely ground, collected, disbursed. I waited. One time I lost sorrow; it slipped out and was buried under sand. Finely ground shells and bits of fur. One time my ancestors came walking out of the sea. They collected the bits of rock and bone and feather and fur and fashioned me.

Now I fly with open mouth, trailing words and shouting meaning: “Look at what I lost.” Another swoop, closer to the ground now: “Look at what I found.” Now tusks curl from my mouth. I charge at memory, tossing aside its fragile weight that once pined me hollow. Now I am the one who will turn and return, slipping gently into water.