it looks like it will be found again one day by the sons and daughters of descendants of so many generations that they will have forgotten the world's turns have been counted in millennia, not merely centuries.

They will not remember the days of men riding machines of metal powered by hearts made of compacted suns. Of traveling in mere hours from one coast to the next on wings like bird their ancestors built with their own hands and with the help of other, helpful machines.

Perhaps they will be desperate, surrounded or pursued by their enemies.

Our suffering children stumble through the forests, the birds taking flight, cawing in protest as the creatures of two legs intrude once again.

The forest abruptly empties into a glade. A place between the trees where the dimmed sun pierces through. Their eyes, accustomed to the lower light now, search for their enemies that may have gotten ahead of them, or are waiting for them, and there it is.