The rings.

From deep in memory lost long before the dream of life had sprung, so those mists were skies of clear and ever present blue.

Once there were fires to light the night, with flames to kiss both moon and stars alike, but dark they fall when sun will find its place beyond the cloudy horizon.

A circle of stone, to watch the heavens and mark their place, it was once so very much alive in more ways than one could imagine now.

So the Sages tell that they would dance within those circles to welcome the seasons’ change. And burn the bodies of leaders and warriors alike so that the heavens might take notice.

And even long before those dances and ceremonies of joy and sadness alike, there were others who would dance.

For the circle is not made of stone, but of the dancing creatures turned to rock in the days before man.

In celebration of the night they danced until the sun emerged from its slumber, and joyously they met that light to forever stand in their place.

But now it’s silent in that place, its purpose long forgotten. Danced around by those certain that their news ways are the old.

But when those charlatans leave that place and between the season changes it’s forgotten, those who know that little more can sit inside that ring.

And in the corners of the eye, where echoes seem to live, a glimpse of once a mighty past might soon enough begin.

 

 

 

A prompt response.