Call it waiting for the moon under a sky the wrong color. Call it glorious doubt. What it is, and how it is are not important. Put your ear to the railroad tracks and listen for other voices, Out There. If only we will be still, we will discover the sound of our own voice. The medicine wheel turns and the tears fall softly, but we walk on, toward Wah Yantee--the chariot of sleep.

     These are the musings, introspective and philosophical though they may be, of the Author. Their origins lie somewhere beyond the storm, past the sunset . . .

"More than anything- and you can see it in his tired old canine eyes -he’s been trying to tell you goodbye, son. So give him one last hug, take him for one last walk, and know that you gave him better years than he could possibly have hoped for anywhere else in his old age. I know how much you love him, but it’s a sure thing he loves you just as much. Cry if you must, but let the tears fall softly." 

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