The morning air nips at my hands on this autumn day as I stand behind the blowing rock. According to legend, if you drop anything from this cliff, it will return to you. Myth, wind currents or magic? Maybe all are correct; for the wind is magic and myth point to truths unseen.
I see the tree line in the distant horizon showing off colors of green, orange, burgundy and yellow. A hawk appears, hanging solo, red tails in the sunlight from far off high. Flying in broad sweeps from left to right, he proceeds to slowly descend into the valley of dense forest. I watch with curious eyes and wonder what? What is he telling me? Lower and lower he glides as the hour appears and he vanishes. Suddenly I know as though our minds became one but for a second. He has come to take our brother home. So the blowing rock doesn’t return everything. Or does it?