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The Mountains of Wyoming are strewn with footpaths, and the shadows linger in the nights deep at the ridges of the rivers, and not much is said for those who pass and enter into their pristine passages.

I was born deep in the darkness, before the edge of dawn, on the cold ground to a woman that was never seen again. Her heart stopped when I was born, her eyes cried with forgiveness, and her hands ached from holding on, yet nothing more was said. The forest wind blew over the mist of the morn, and my father escaped the passage holding a baby wrapped in a blanket, and called the authorities from the house of a stranger, but it was still too late. Black draping scarfs and robes passed through the rain the day of the funeral, and the mourning never subsided for my father for many years, and my grandmother swore she would have vengeance on someone, for stopping my mother's heart before she could see the sun rise over the face of her blossom, yet still my grandmother's pain was too much to carry, and her heart subsided too, and she rose through her ashes and life became a road of survival and philosophies were remembered deep in the soul, but forgotten to the eyes that followed me. The sound of the rain is all I remember now. Some people remember their first words, first love, or first luck, but what I remember is my first rain. Perhaps they never heard the meaning of life, or the blessing of sanctity, or the call of the blackbird over birth and death, but if they knew pain, and it was enough to keep their hearts beating.

Time passed and the echoes through the darkness became deeper and became closer and we silented our minds as we made the run through the most dangerous woods of this place. I am old. Older than the gold wheat in the fields of the north, but I am young enough to remember my struggle and surmise and the typhoon that passed our post that night. My father was seventeen when I was born, his long black hair was thick and worked, and he was strong from belief in a world of honor that he saw with the eyes of a young spiritual. He was dark, and his eyes were like gems, and his hands were not scarred from the amount of lives he saved. He joined the military, became a footsoldier, and we left the States under the shade of the owl to take this mission here. It is something that few could ever talk about, and now that I am old, it is a story I only tell to the listening eye and the heart that can hold the moon.

The roads were dusty

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