December 3, 2000: The revealing of unmistakable

He dreamt of escapisms through mind not physical motion—a painted portrait from the forest. A man, confident, it could be seen in the way he wore his black hat. It was a tall head covering, its brim leaning over one eye, resembling a Carolina sunrise. Looking into his face, I viewed the shape of winter—for he was black not red. His play was with the wind, a dance he called his own. I remember his teeth, rugged times, more colorful then each tight knot located at the base of his hair and above his eyes. “Maybe a runaway,” I thought to myself, “A dreamer whose vision was to succeed.” No laugh came from the wanderer—a serious step he did take but nothing from the path where he once stood. Am I wrong to believe my spirit guides are not Native American?