This is about too many things at once.

Once, in a bout of complete unprofessionalism

I gave a thousand dollar prize

To a liquid-eyed native american woman at a craft show

Not because her work was best, at all, really.

But because she put her hand on my arm as she spoke to me

Of fox tails and raccoon bones, of softened deer hide.

And when she handed me a pouch of stones and a turkey feather,

she explained that whatever stones might be in that pouch,

And she didn't know-

Those were my stones -

I didn't really understand what she meant, but it was beautiful.

And I love things that I don't understand

That are beautiful.

Now that pouch hangs on my rearview mirror,

Holding onto things I don't dare touch,

But can't let go of -

Just yet, anyway.

And I'm thinking that when the time is right,

when I'm in the middle of the country, on my way to California

To start something new -

I will open all of the windows, untie the pouch,

let the wind toss it around, sunroof open.

And when it's done,

all that will be left will be the stones at the bottom.

My stones.

For now I'll dig my hands into earth,

Become grounded.

Submerge myself in water, and be buoyant, naked.

I'll wait for wind.

But the fire, I'll put that aside for now.

I'm putting it somewhere for safe keeping, because I'll want it someday, I know.

But it was out of flint anyway,

And thank god I'm not.

For a second there, I thought I was.