Past the thicket by the old fence, down by the old rusted out Plymouth, I stopped to take stock in my triflings with the ways of this world. I sat against an old pecan tree and wondered why, and a whisper brought me this reply:
You are not the beacon on a ship. You are not the mast, nor the compass. The mighty sea you cannot tame,
Nor the sands of shorelines, nor the tall grass that wisps in the sun.
Take heed though, and call your engines mighty, for you are the strength of the mountain, and you have lived in my dreams forever. Thank you dear friend. – Sinz