Far below the hawk underneath volcanic ledges. ancient men who sculpture stone points, grow restless, as the great darkness approaches.
In time their mortars filled with sagebrush and blowing dust, and nothing was left that could turn to rust.
Nearby on walls of varnished rock they carved the story of their kind, Of a child-like people with a super-natural mind.
Impressed upon my heart is a vision and now I know that the true meaning of the petroglyphs expand out as far as my mind can grow.
As the sun sets red, orange, and purple out over the ancient indian sites, and the clouds become a cerebral heaven, nightime comes forth all powerful and of an ethereal nature.
The colors deepen, so do the hues, and the world goes on to become our future.