Parched Lips and Indian Frowns

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A group of native men weary from hard travel, with faces beat by the sweltry cycle of August days, decided to take rest at the cracked shore of a dried up bog. Sapless lips cooked shut from caked saliva, the four of them dreamt there of the many rivers they had known in bygone days.

As still and quiet as they were, resting there by the delapidated marsh, you'd never think it that they were on the run. Declared themselves done with intolerable treatment, the men had tossed in their tools one morning and fled their white bosses by foot.

30 miles later now, through a Kentucky wood that they had never known, it occurred to the bunch that they had no where in mind to go, not even old faces to look for. It had been too many years since they had seen their wives or held their children--not since the days they were still fighting for their land, their faces alive with red warrior smiles. Since those days, it had been a quick series of lost battles for their people, a steady degeneration of values and lives. And so was born the infamous Indian frown.

After some time the four men picked themselves up, and continued on in a crooked direction through the trees. Their attentions lay lonely ahead, just desperate for something to look towards; meanwhile, their tired spirits lay back at the cracked shore, contemplating why they'd be better off not to just make a home of that bog.