Sorry, Bob, for leaving you wandering in the void. I've been busy knitting and crocheting, but have been writing each night before bed. Here's one from last weekend. It's not much, just a little scribble.
Prehistoric marks on stone are the only evidence of life in this desolate place. Once a long time ago, a wading bird stalked across this muddy flat and left its fleur-de-lis of a footprint behind. Sun baked the mud dry, the climate changed, and the cycle began. Water receded, leaving the land high and dry. No rain came to wash the print away, no playful wave erased it. The mud hardened, compressed, and kept the faint record of the bird's passing on its face until one day it could no longer be lost. The mud had turned to stone and left the anonymous footprint of a long-dead bird to tantalize us, to lead us on to what is to be.
See you Thursday.
--Barbara
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