I sit alone upon a hill, green grass overhanging rock outcrops, a row of fence posts marching down the slope, their steps frozen in single file, held together by wire.
A few spring flowers push up out of the dead brown patches where cows once grazed and left their marks.
Hieroglyphic lichen patterns hold the landscape fast.
Cloud shadows flow across the hills and valleys below.
I am home.
Home am I.
Happiness and freedom far from the cabin in the woods.
Wandering the countryside.
This is my universe, my place of rest, the activity of ions and atoms busy out of sight right here in front of me.
A sunny breeze tickles the tops of grass stalks.
My steps disappear behind me and reappear in front of me.
Farmhouses in the distance.
Thanks to my sister, I now know the embroidery style that her mother in-law uses to create fascinating works of art:
I think the kits that her mother in-law used were called Matsuhato.
Which leads to the next thought.
In times past, battles were remembered by bards with ballads and seamstresses who sewed elaborate tapestries.
In the battles to come, let us remember our fallen warriors — whether under cyber attack or defending our physical freedoms — using Bunka or whatever means our warriors’ family, friends and supporters may have at hand.
Who amongst you will create the kits that will feature the flaming fields of war?
Who will sew the tartans to drape over the weapons newly-forged in Ruralite furnaces?
Who will create the sinewed covers for the field drums, whether made with animal skin or simulated on tablet PC screens?
My friends, it is too late for the war of words.
The battle cry has echoed in the hills and valleys, shook the shaky foundations of the once hallowed halls in Urbanski territory.
The trumpets of Jericho wait no longer!