While waiting for the sunset, I found a slew of animal bones in a wash. At first I thought they were from the same animal or at least the same species, but in retrospect, the femur fragment above, and the tiny scapula below have little in common, other than their sun-bleached, weathered appearance.
There is something magical about a Montana blue sky, with puffy white clouds arriving and departing from moment-to-moment. The bones didn't seem like the indexical reference to death, which of course they are, but more like clouds; things returning to the sky.
They are very sculptural, and I imagined hauling them all into my car for still-life drawing assignments for my summer class. I didn't do it, but I'm still thinking about it.
Perhaps these little shapes are better suited as inspiration for sculpture.
Or fetish objects.
Or sails for the little-peoples' boats.
I can feel the same awe Georgia O'Keeffe had for the positive-negative space of staring at your own, round piece of the sky through the pelvis of a creature who long-ago gave birth to a young thing that saw a similar view.
The presence of muscles and ligaments remain on the bone, in lines and ridges, like a long lost love.
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