Tusayan

The fallen snow does its best to cover the past. The crunching of my boots on the frozen ground is the only sound in the subzero morning. I see stone markings of the ancient ones in the area known as Tusayan.
The museum is closed in winter. I wander in silence by myself in the graveyard of the Natives, a lone crow laughing by my side. I wonder if it is a sign or a warning?
These days it doesn’t seem to matter. No good or bad comes to me, only the progression of the sun migrating East to West on a never ending journey around me.
I marvel each time my friend the Sun passes me, as if the two of us are sharing in a secret unbeknownst to the rest of the world.
There are times though that I would like to share the secret….

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?