Sitting under a great willow tree at the edge of a field, he drew a breath with the wind. Rustling leaves and an amber sun hanging low on the treeline. Shadows stretching the forest long. He was healthy and the ground was neat and dry. He sat there, pausing along his journey to rest his aching feet and shoulders. To think about the future, about a thousand years from now.
The hunter knew of time, and of a time a thousand years before him. He sat, and thought of his ancestors, and the nature of ancestors, and himself thrown so preciously in time. Then he thought of you. About who you might be, somewhere, doing some average thing in some impossible future. In a reality he could hardly fathom. In a reality as sure as the setting sun he now set his eyes upon.
And here you sit, reading this passage, your mind wandering backwards to an old time. A time a thousand years past, to some forgotten hunter under a great willow tree in the golden blanket of a waning summer evening. You think of ancestors, and the nature of ancestors, and of a connection made through a whisper in time.