After ignoring my phone calls for several months, for whatever reason, an old friend decided to get in touch again. He added to his previous poem (see here):
SEARCHING FOR ARROWHEADS IN NEVADA WITH PETER WAKSMAN
The breath of the ancient ones did flow
Carried by westerly winds to the soul
Treading lightly on their hallowed ground
Through light and silence, there was no sound
Searching for signs of their time on earth
Carefully sifting through stones, desert hearth
Looking to find simple marks of their time
Migrating across this timeless sublime
The ancient ones can fill your soul
With dreams and visions that take their toll
Eyes to the ground but look up ahead
A stone circle gathering place we are lead
We can sense and feel their feet at the fire
As they rested, and ate, smoke rings rising higher
To see their lives and works turned to dirt
Opens the window of death... and it hurt
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