In faces we see years, or the lack thereof, tones of skin, lips of color and grin stretching out to welcome us or drawn tight to hide away the pain of days and nights, winters and spring, of living too much or not enough, walking the path to the river or the River, the dip of birth or the dip of death, the planting or harvesting, and as we walk by them, in the water, in the grass, in the tree or air, it is not in their faces that the story lies, it is in their eyes, their eyes, their eyes.
Eyes looking outward
Skeptical angry or no
The tale is thereby told
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