Gnarled old men line the path. Grey heads nodding they dream the dreams of all men in twilight years. Sleepy fingers, lost in memory, drop seeds that fall to lay rotting underfoot. Grass and weeds, brambles and burrs, rise with the passing of the seasons to shape burial mounds sickly sweet with ferment and time. In this still place, marked only by the track of deer and fox, mossy heads bow low and slumber on.