Third Journey

Third Journey

I stand before the mountain
Gazing at images scratched into the stone,
Colored by traces of soot and dyes.
The Old Ones left this record
To be read and remembered
By others who would come after.
I reach out, gently touching the curves and lines,
Feeling with curious fingers,
Wondering who stood here before,
The painter of life, of time.
I slowly pull my hand away,
My fingers are stained
By the colors of fresh paints
Prepared from the plants and the earth.
Beside me stands a man,
Tall, bronze, and bare-chested,
Painting this year's story upon the mountain.
I gaze at some of the old images,
Remembering the voice of my grandfather
Telling the tales and legends of long ago.
I give the painter another bowl, another color.
Below is our village,
The smoke of the fire and the sounds of life
Rise on the wind to the Great Spirit.
The People prepare for the celebration of harvest,
Thankful for Mother Earth and Father Sun,
For full bellies and children who laugh,
For the gathering, the song, and the dance.
The drawing is finished, another year recorded
We silently gather the brushes and paints,
Then together start down the trail,
We stop and turn to look once again
At the many drawings on this monument,
The history of the People in a sacred place.
The man turns his head and speaks,
His eyes on me as one well trusted,
His voice familiar and reassuring,
Are you ready, my brother?
I nod and we turn again to the trail.
The wind stirs my hair,
The sound of a voice lingering in my mind,
Perhaps it was merely the wind
Playing among the rocks.
I gaze at the stone wall before me
At ancient paintings and petroglyphs.
The watchful spirits of my relatives surround me.
I am honored to be one in a long line
That reaches from ancient past to distant future.
The wind stirs again,
Bringing the smell of wood smoke
And the voices of family and friends.
I remember and I understand;
Tonight I live again.


Les Tate
part of the Timewalker Trilogy