Wood and stone. Reusable weapon. Sheath your sword and use more cunning. Katniss in the forest, quivering arrow cold. Sure to hit the mark. Bullesye on the spot. Native Americans who gave their lives to the dirt, became the soil rebirth, they used arrows. Colliding with bullet. It’s a song for a time long past, but still ever present in the way it wraps its roots around our country’s throat. Last words: “Don’t forget me”. But history isn’t dead if it’s still living inside us, living among us. It’s not a ghost, but an everlasting spirit. Arrows rain down like pointed droplets. Flint against stone. Sparking revolution. Another kind of power. Powerful bows made of powerful branches. Made from the same wood of Stradivarius. Mozart on the range. Atop a horse. What would he think of a cowboy song? And Indian chant? I see him looking like a well-dressed 18th century Frenchman in white and blues. Azzuro. That kind of light blue. He guides his horse so it circles around. He’s evaluating the perimeter of the forest he finds himself in. Looking for a better violin, perhaps.
