Home...

I think I've lived here before.  The valley is too familiar.  If I listen I can hear the ages over lapping.  I hear the laughter of children and smell the smoke of campfires.

History's voice comes from the land.  The old wagon road, the chips of flint and chert, the lay of the valley tell me what once was.

I read the dirt and see thousands of years before me in layers.  The dirt speaks as plainly as if it were written. I see great floods, fire and then years and years of soil building.  I seek the section when the Native Americans lived here.  I touch it and think I understand.

Springs flow and make this valley rich with game.  It was and is a perfect place to live.  I am in awe at the natural fortification of this beautiful life-filled valley.

As the day turns out the light the fog rises.  The frogs sing for their mates.  Life continues here with or without me.

In awe and wonder I know I have been here before...

This place is part of me.   This place at the end of a dead end road in the middle of nowhere is home.

I hear the drums beat and voices rise in song.