Ten-seventeen, the numbered label read; Bones of a prehistoric woman, dead Perhaps five thousand dusty years ago; A young one, too, by all the signs we know -- Straight-limbed and strong. I picture her as fair, With leaf-brown eyes and long, thick, sun-flecked hair. The digger called, "An infant by her side!" With expert care his eager fingers pried The fragile bits loose from their red clay bed. "Well, that makes number ten-eighteen," he said. Ages of peace -- and then her sightless eyes Stared up again at Alabama skies. |