Gnarled, vined with veins, weathered and rough, twist the hands of the wizened nurse.
She gently anoints oil onto a newborn babe's skin, those ancient, withered hands shaping and smoothing, soothing new flesh.
All I see is the dough of Africa rising, the mounding of the mountains and vales and the unbroken wilderness between, being shaped by timeless forces older than god.
I sighed and marveled at how we get our fingers in each other's lives, to see what shapes we can make of each other.
The nurse smiled and replied in a rolling, resonant tone that too much clay is hard on the hands, for it parches the skin.