He tosses the Indian head gently in his hand. The rough edges smooth over themselves in patterns familiar to fingers, yet foreign to reasoning. He can't imagine who made this stone, with what instrument of power and force, or even why they would try to take a hard, unyielding stone and grasp Nature in their grip. She looks on, sitting by his side, caressing his arm. With the wind blowing her bronze locks into her copper-colored eyes, he wonders why she even bothers to stay. The arrow head's black gloss shines in the fading light, the sleepless sun disappearing behind the hills in the distance. She leans on him, trying to catch his eyes, hoping to get him to feel the sunlight before its light is gone for what feels like forever. He can't imagine why she loves him, what convinces her to remain with him and his stone, who she thinks he can become with enough passion and love. The moon rises, its cold light searching for its own sun to warm its stony body. She searches for the arrow head, hoping to hold it in her hand, to feel what he feels, to grasp his heart in her grip. He pulls his hand away and arises, his stone still clasped in his grip.

07/14/2009

Posted on 07/14/2009
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