In the river the silver and the gold are carving his skin. Burning questions of forgotten knowledge and dusty treasure maps awaken in the frosted morning while the dogs bark at the shadows and the sounds of distant wheels. Is he a dreamer or a wise man? Surely both and I follow his hands as they shovel, and press the clay out of the rusty earth. I love this brain in motion as active as his body because it defies time and because it is real, genuine.
I do not know his past or his future but I can only dive in this tale unfolding in front of my eyes. In the memory of all of our dreams. White fang is hiding with Buck behind the frosted bush as the sun burns down the cold morning.
I have met memorable men in a memorable place at the crossroads where Thornton and Scott ghosts runs free.
In the evening while barks are echoing from the sky, I have felt the fever or their hunger. Desires floating in the gushing water of the river are now running down my face, leaving shivers on their trails from my eyes to my neck…because I have felt Freedom as stars are glowing in the moon shape pan.