Singing Wood

He watched her beating out the clothes upon the river rock. He wanted to approach her but was unskilled in small talk. Laughing Waters was the prettiest maiden any young brave could know. His heart was so filled with her but he could not tell her so. He dreamed of bringing to her the most glorious of hides that she might make into a dress to become his promised bride. He wasn’t the most skilled hunter, nor the bravest of the brave, but his great love was the purest that a little maid could crave. He had the fine hands of an artist and the spirit of a poet. Unless he found his tongue to speak, there was no way she could know it. What was it he could offer that no other man could give? If she yielded to another’s guile he would not want to live. He looked at his long fingers and knew then what he must do to impress his fair young lady love and prove his love so true. He found a limb and hollowed it ‘til it was smooth as glass. He lifted it to his moist lips just as she chanced to pass. A note so pure came from his flute, the maiden stopped to hear. The loveliest sound she’d ever heard fell on her listening ear. She knew the flute was telling her the words he could not say. Singing Wood had found his voice at last. She is his bride today. Buy Joyce Johnson Constance's contest (Tell His Story) won no. 4 place