Blood and Dirt

John stooped down and picked up a handful of the warm red dirt and let the fine material fall through his fingers as he hiked.  The land had always reminded him of blood.   It wasn’t the color – that would have been a cheap and easy connection.  No, it was much more profound than that.

Blood was life.  Blood also meant death.  It joined the two in an unbreakable companionship of opposites that few truly understood.  This land was the same way.  It was both life and death, and he appreciated the connection.  More importantly, he understood and contributed to that connection. 

His boots moved silently across the terrain, disturbing very little, but the damned pack animal wasn’t quite as respectful.  It scattered rocks and dirt as it plodded along behind him.  John stopped pulling the bridle and turned around.

“I don’t know why in the hell I picked…

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