The mountains are calling, and I must go. The siren song - familiar soundtrack of my youth. I am powerless to resist, nor do I want to delay.

The coverlet of stars, each a festering sore upon my soul, illuminates my nocturnal navigation,
Almost as if I existed, somewhere between starlight and daylight.

Nevertheless, Castle Country, with it monuments to human futility – and long history of human dignity – calls my name. Petroglyphs, hieroglyphs – desperate history scratched into the walls of human suffering.

So now, nearly a grown man, pining for what once was. What to make of the mysteries that populate my dreams?

The form, the shape, a reflection of buckhorn, nine mile, Rochester, horseshoe, sego, angels, holy men, and the holy ghost: all haunt me, prehistorically.