Each claw formed from porcelain
as if an old sink had chipped to tip bones
with material that resisted breaking, thanks to fire,
what had held decades of faces
bent down to wash, breath held until done, unaware
they paused that way. Wet skin
became bright as stones under creeks
that ran in mountains out west, fast, cold, never still,
unlike bodies of water here, so heavy with runoff
they seemed not to move
although she knew they must.
They reflected little color, full
of topsoil, nitrogen, pesticides, herbicides
for so many generations now
that no one remembered how it had been before.
As a child, she’d looked
in the creek near their farm once when allowed close.
She seemed a silhouette, no different
than the forest that stood behind.
She couldn’t find her eyes.