The road he walked never towered over the sky, but followed the pulse of the earth, choosing an upward slope at every fork in the road. The early morning when the sickle cut through the wheat fields, the late night when the tax forms were stacked into hills, the time when pine waves whispered beside the steel helmet while standing guard, the moment when the war eagle took off from the edge of the manuscript paper - these deep and shallow footprints eventually merged into the same path: it did not point to any peak, but only allowed him to see when he looked back that he had never stayed on the flat road for too long.
