When I was a boy, my bow was only made of plastic, but I could fire those arrows way up, so far, so far
into the blue that you could not see them anymore, lost
in the clouds until they descended suddenly
deep into the Earth as if an offering
received. Nobody knew
but I was a Crow warrior back then
simply opening up
the sky.
More beginnings.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
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