Our ancestors cross my mind. The ancient ones on the cusp of departure, still competing with the others for food and shelter. Freezing to death under moss and animal skin. Starving. Running fast but not fast enough. Chipping away at chert. Piecing together shards of dream. Thinking. What is thinking? Creating point and edge. Fly-bitten, skinny creatures, all bone and gristle tying stone teeth to broken branches. Tight fist and trace of smile. Rocking on their haunches as the world turns, unaware of what is coming.
Sitting by the river with a beer in the evening. This is not what I was thinking when they crossed my mind. All romance and elder wisdom. Gentle breeze in the bulrush. A kingfisher passing close by, reflected in the stream. I tucked the cushion under my arm and walked up to the house. Put a frozen pizza in the oven.