Under the single oak she sat. The old woman clad in leather and simple beads.
All was still, but for the sound of the stone tapping. She was meticulously grinding the stone into the circular curves of the boulder. There she would prepare the meal for the day.
The old man was wise and had many feathers. Weathered by time the lines on his face.
He showed the reminder of many roads traveled, as he dipped his fingers into the pigment. He wrote his story on the wall of the rock. These were images of life that would last through the ages.
The sun was low in the sky. Its ray lit the rock etching across the story like a finger being told a tale. But I couldn't understand the words, only felt it's meaning. I looked facing the past standing in the present. This was the story that had to be told.
There are centuries of people all standing in the same spot. I am, in another time. I have seen just a glimpse of who they are. Truly they are ancestors of man, the Native Americans. As I find myself standing on the same road. I would call myself as a modern day native of the desert. Such challenges of the past are not ours. But all the same, we have our trials.
Still we have many conveniences in our modern world. But the longing for understanding remains. Life sets us to seek out the bond between man and earth. That may just be a path to peace and harmony. It is the infinite part of us. This gives us the spirit of man and the love for the land. The need to have nature about us is real. It is part of us that can't be taken away.
So from time to time I would set my tent up. Roast my food and sleep among the stars.
There I would dream of writings in the sand. And find a way along the road for my waking hours. And remember that old woman, the old man, and the stone.
I would write it on the pages of history waiting to happen, my story.
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