Ghost Grass

I woke up in a stone hut
On the shore of a green lake.
Chalk bones and black scraps of hide,

All that was left of a horse,
Lay in the grass by the hut,
As if stretched out for a nap,

Next to a pile of more bones
Of who knows what, burned to ash.
The face of the lake was bare.

How much time had passed? Days? Months?
Years? I tried the note the time
Lost. I tried to rub my eyes

And squint at the bones and ash.
A bench sat by a long shelf
Piled with pots that looked sealed shut.

The rest of the hut was blank.
I tried not to move too much.
I knew for sure it would hurt.

I watched the waves. Not a word.
At the far end of the lake
I thought I saw a dark bird.