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.