Maudelle Driskell

On some fundless expedition, you discover it beneath a pyracantha bush carved from the hip bone of a long-extinct herbivore that walked the plains on legs a story tall. An ocarina of bone drilled and shaped laboriously with tools too soft to be efficient by one primitive musician spending night after night squatting by the fire. No instrument of percussion: place this against your lips, fill it from your lungs to sound a note winding double helix, solo and thready calling to the pack.