that by stringing together a rickety trap of ropes and sticks, she creates a puzzling structure that just might be clever enough to trick a buzzard, once the trap’s baited with leftover pork from supper.
Mad and I used to do everything together,
but now I need a project all my own, so I roam the green fields, finding bones.
The skull of a wild boar.
The jawbone of a mule.
Older cousins show me
how to shake the mule’s quijada, to make the blunt teeth rattle.
Guitars. Drums. Gourds. Sticks. A cow bell. A washboard. Pretty soon, we have a whole orchestra.
On Cuban farms, even death
can turn into music.
Margarita Engle, "Ritmo/Rhythm" from Enchanted Air. Text