Tapping your fingertip against the drumskin. Speaking to the creek and waiting years for an answer, decades waiting for a meaningful reply. Loving another person for a lifetime, facing it all together. Running when the wind is at your back, standing still and smiling when the wind is on your face. Making up ridiculous songs and then forgetting them again. Picking up interesting little rocks and saving them forever. Forever.
The season begins its next change, and the air above me, while fresh, bears some wound that I cannot see. I can only see the blood from this wound, and smell the air. With this blood, and in this air, I paint stripes across my face, on my cheeks and my forehead, like a warrior. What have I to fear? Death has always been close to me.