Dine'

You don't write, though you should be writing. Your days are all airplanes and road trips, all sunshine and changing seasons, are fodder for stories. Spring explodes around you and you drive ever south, into Red Rock Country, into a back country that feels like it's written into your spine though it is not your heritage. He looks out over the buttes and mesas, the hundred-mile valleys, says this is where my people come from, this is where my art begins. She weaves tales of her people into the tapestry, but says there are stories she cannot tell us. They are not for the summer season, she says, as explanation. He tells us of a tornado that pullled through a few years ago and says that when he asked his family elders, they simply said, That is where They walk and left it at that. 

How can I write when stories like that are being told around me? I am all ears, no voice now. There is no money in my account but am I not on the road, am I not working in ways I neved dreamed possible before? 

It all crumbles around us. Best enjoy the crumbs.