The Old Ones
Look at those rocky hills,
how savage they are!
The old ones remain,
their tribal names
still imprinted upon the land.
We walk them
scrabble over them.
The human heart bounds up
pounding.
We are foundlings here
the rocks know us not
and yet we are taken into
their history.
Look at that climbing man over there!
He is like a green blade
of new grass.
The hills seem to question him,
seek his wilderness heritage.
If he has not an old soul
then they may call upon him
to run his own gauntlet,
and though he is young
he must accept that challenge,
or be made invisible
to these ancient stones.
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