Tribe

There are boats carved out of ancient timber that circle my head. I see the men, women and children landing on the shore of the river Styx. Not comprehending me they go about their business pulling in the nets, full and flapping. They build their fires and eat their catch as they rest their weathered skins. The children sleep the elders argue and tell stories that drown out the moans of ecstasy of the young couples shooting arrows, piercing the black sky cover, igniting the stars and moon.

William Edward Teague, (c) 2014