On the edge of the ghost town is a dirt trail that leads to a small hill. You can make out a dirty chain link fence through the overgrown weeds to the remains of headstones.
The grave markers of the ghosts of Bodie.
Small fenced in plots of the very old, the far too young, and every age in between. I run my fingers over the smooth marble and feel the presence of Death.
I find an old wooden cross half hidden in the sagebrush. I feel compelled to pick it up and walk among the graves with it raised before me, like a deranged preacher.
Yet I have no sermon, nor a congregation willing to listen.


Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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