My ancestors lived in the caves of Gower and made tools from bone and stone. More recently, my people grew cotton in the United States and married their second cousins. Over it all, the same moon and stars, the same sun. Wind whispering through the trees.
The wind has no need for secrets, neither does the current sliding down the creek. I don’t keep secrets anymore. Life is what it is. And now? A morning halfway between the sun and the rain. Somewhere a new child is born, even as I write these words. And again, as you read. And again.