Walking out of the small town and heading on along the trail I looked back, smokeries reminded me how much a house can tell you about the life of people there
They were in danger, too much danger to be handled, but she found a way out, the story goes, she turned both herself and her sixteen children into stone
I had reached the ancient rocks, they felt solid, and even older than both the sand and the limestones I'd passed on my way
The tiny houses on the wooden sticks looked faded in the sun, but faded in ways, as wood do, that kind of make it even more beautiful
The first drops of water soon hit the paper, I tried to lean forward, covering it as much as I could, while continuing to paint, but soon gave up and just let the rain join in as it liked to
First I walked over it, then I stopped, liked the solid feel of the small bridge, way to solid for the short distance it had to span
The first drops of rain hit as I approached a bird watching tower all made in wood. It looked empty and I could need a cup of coffee. I climbed the stairs and found a need sheltered little space, where I could put down the backpack and make myself a cup of coffee on my stove, watching the birds and waiting for the rain to pass.