Weeks heave and haul, give way at last to what seems respite. Near Sunset sky highlight's the exhaust assembly, in umber shame-berm's shadow, what curls around the site of ancestors' leavings. What others might revert to idleness, still these are a different sort. No sooner do sore feet cease their left right beatings, than are bundles of heavy hides taken up. Alit, Kagouti, and Netch in kind, evidence of adversity overcome and scars well won or more so. Already others erect first scaffolds, placed out upon billow ash. Lashed by what's deemed left over, unfit for paneling new year's survival's shelters. These many practiced hands assemble almost homes, of was-just clearing. First flickering fires come alight, casting silhouettes of resolute still un-pause-ing bodies, against yurts time tested. Measures of traditions' progress, which rewards the cyclic, abhors the change untested. As tasks are taken up completed, each to the next moves on, until all are in concert forced to confront their shared condition. Best next to show more, than speak thus. Sight those there, in center clearing, three throngs of almost singers and fewer others around them, perhaps still unsure of whether they might still be chosen. I recall some names if memory serves, first is swift leg Usharrari Boethiah's sworn. Next is Zanshah the well seen and seeing, Azura's favored. Then the Weaver's net-kind Shahhailu who draws threads from seems-just aether. Wait, who still? Also there is another I almost miss, who stands apart and waits unsworn unseen. She wasn't this way then, one year ago, three others who were kin, now persist in absence. Ashimasi her name I think, perhaps we'll see. Let us listen a moment, hear their songs, that we might better ascertain their purpose.
