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What are you waiting for?
A soft breeze blew.
He had been riding hard for for more hours than he could remember, stopping only long enough to wipe out his horse's mouth with a water soaked kerchief. All the little water that he had went to his horse for if the horse faltered he was dead anyway. All of the tribe relied on the return of what he brought. His eyes were crusty with dust and dried sweat.
Finally with sun going down he thought he might yet make it back. Scanning the horizon he saw a glimmer. Soon he caught a whif of mesquite smoke and his saliva glands began to work envisioning what awaited him as his stomache had forgotten what it was like to be full.
As he drew closer he could hear the soft talk of women about the cooking fire. And in the distance men cleaning their swords and engaging in idol chatter. Dismounting finally one of the children caught sight of him and called out his name. Throughout the encampment it got quiet and there was excitment mirrored in all of their faces.
They gathered round him as he pulled the back pack out and spilled its contents across the ground. Many pulled up the rectangular shapes. There was a gold glitter of lettering caught by the campfire to highlight words like Yeats and Fitzgerald and Hemingway. They craved these old ways and words as they began the slow return from near destruction of all that ever was.
