Drawn ... Part I

My most treasured private moments of are not within the wagons attended by slaves, but among the solitude of nature around me. The wind, the grass, the unending flow of water are as if they carry away my cares and leave only revitalization behind. Funny how something so simple as a bath can make you feel whole and new again. That was how I felt when I left the stream and began my venture out over the plains. My fingers slid between the still wet satarna strands, weaving them into a thick braid as I walked the forgotten trade road. Once the tether was in place, my hand fell to the top of last seasons tall grass. I enjoy setting the spidery seedlets free to blow in the wind. Its fun to watch the mist of white fill the air like a plume of dust left by a racing kaiila. I enjoyed the dry crunches of leaves interupted by small patches of new growth. These small things marked the trail out beyond the dry gulch.

Hard work has honed the definition of muscle and eating well the has left a sheen of health. I am no longer the wisp of porcelain creature I once was, so the trek I was on today was without physical effort. It left my thoughts as playful as the seeds I set free. Someone had asked earlier in the hand if I was happy. There was an immediate response that seemed to fall into the fires and lay there twitching. No. The context had been of people. As easily as the word had fallen lifeless then, a smile came with the thought now, here in moments such as these, in the company of the plains themselves ... I am.

The low hum of the black bees said I was close to the old petrified stump. I grew quiet and moved slowly to become part of their surroundings. They paid me little attention as I sat beside the old gnarled hollow to reach inside. This was something Tarra understood if no one else did ... that I know and feel part of the creatures around me. I am drawn to them and they are drawn to me. I spoke now in whisper, a small ditty my mother used to say. It was to the plains, to the stump and to the bees that the gift they gave me of honey would be shared along with the happiness it brought. The combs were small this time of year but laden full of a dark rich resin made from a variety of flowers all over the prarie and what is called dew from small aphid like creatures too. This was different than other honeys from this region, it had a strong wild flavor but it was the sweetest I had ever tasted. The crop would not feed the masses of the harriga but it would certainly sweeten a few wagons. When the light glinted off a stray wisp of my hair and my eyes adjusted filling the gray exposure with colors, there was Madga smiling down at me. Somehow it seems she emerges from the sunlight, that brightness that dims the vision to make you close your eyes ... then .. she is there. In the back of my mind, I kind of hope that it is how she travels ... on the rays of light because I know that she sufffers the ravages of time. You can see it in the refractions of her eyes even though they are deeply wrinkled by years of smiles.

There is no pressure, no persistant urge or need between us to keep the other entertained. We were alright simply sitting there side by side, enjoying the sticky treat of honey left on our fingers and drinking in the warmth of the day. When conversation did come, there were no rules that it had to flow by. It came when it wished and ended like the breeze as if it carried on somewhere else. It dawned on me, the depth of friendship does not always come in the enlivenment of chatter but the comfort of silences.