Buried Arrows

The only sin greater than returning to my old homestead before the journey is through is in again readying the saddle for leaving with now every grave disturbed, and the shovel bearing my prints is left on the lawn. I am for now, broken. That is the right word I am sure. With four separate families I have stowed my belongings. My brother has taped boxes of my leather books, stashed my painted buffalo skull in plastic, and stored above his room too many memories in packing paper. Over my brother Bobbie's bed hangs my hunting bow. The attic of my brother and mother is now heavy in waiting. My truck sits confused in their driveway to rust and worry away months into over a year--until the walk is alive on paper and reflection. Saviors have stepped out of shadows until I feel that I owe the world. I do. My one room log cabin sits on land I do not own with my prayer that the land is not sold until the walk is over so I can move each log onto land that for now is only a dream. Life is a gamble. If the land of my ex-inlaws sells before my feet stop, I lose. Game over.
The joy of my rolling wanderlust is my 1948 honey-moon edition Airstream Liner complete with rear half-moon bed. It is simple perfection. It now squats in the weather behind the Bryt's family barn praying for both of us if silver vintage campers can bow their heads. I see floods, mice, falling trees, robbers, crazed farmers on runaway tractors cutting grass in a field of boulders. Sometimes my mind is against me. Thankful for Bunny Bryt's generous offer to allow my airstream to wait out my return, I talk myself down knowing that I have done all I could do. For now it is done.
I see myself once again addicted to the gleanings of this life that I have toiled away so many labors for. All control is gone. Again I am a backpacker owning nothing I can not carry except for the glint of hope in my eyes that begs for mercy in a future of perpetual uncertainity. To walk again is to prove that I am worth more than all I own. Doubt holds my hand like children. To walk again after another round of good-byes is to ache deep from a disturbed heart. Now I notice my back hunches under ever so slightly having recieved the severe scolding of my own inner voice. "What have you done with your life. You have traded a beautiful cow, and the farm for a bag of beans." I plant seeds as I walk. And Pray.

"Where are you from, or....where do you live," asks a voice that seems to sound like my own?
"I am homeless. I am a leaf falling and I am tired" The walk begins again.