This was written for Tim Burris. My best friend.

Happy Birthday, Warchief.*



The sky will break open.

Meeting shades of red, black, and white, as the sun settles into the void.

This is his brow.



Anvil hands. He marks the moving beneath, like earthen plates in shift.

Affecting change. Symphonic strokes.



War is on his breath. Hidden behind a smile that shines like pax.

Don't dare him or he'll ask you to look down.



Heed the drums.

The warchief comes.



Your victory is written in the fabric of his kilt.

Gilded in the golden thread of kith and kin.

He was watching. He is always watching.



And though the black steed has gone gray,

He snorts storm clouds into the valley he looks down upon.

The tides ripple beneath his skin.

His chest swells in pride and laughter.



Alpha. Hands curled in furious fists of might and mirth,

Trained for love and war and so much more.



Heed the drums.

The warchief comes.



His hug a phalanx.

His word, unbroken steel.

His hands. Anvils.

His history, legendary.



Mighty.



He is the spirit horse.

He is the edgewalker.

He is the vibration playing across the drum skin.

Carrying outward on wind.

Settling peace in the hearts of his own.



Heed the drums.

The warchief comes.



We will stand beside him.

For we are mighty too.

We that tie our spines together, like coursing veins.

We that are family, not of blood.

But spirit.

We that match our heart beats as one powerful rhythm.

Pounding off canyon walls.

Ringing in ears.

Shaking the fabric of the never forgotten.



We that are woven together.

A tartan of our own.

We that stand as one to love.

And laugh.

And revel.

And fight.



We that never run.

But run like blood.



We that are bound with him.

Storm clouds.

A phalanx.

A fabric.

A family.

A drum beat.



We are the drums.

We are the drums.



Look to the horizon.



The warchief comes.