I ask the child, what story do you want to tell me. She comes and places her hand on my shoulder bone. Tells me my heart beats from there. She listens to it. My heart in my shoulder bone, now sheltered by her palm. There is a prayer in my heart. Then she says, like an Oracle, looks at the blue eyed, blue tanned God, and tells me, "there is sorrow in your heart. Then there are things I do not know of. Nor can tell you what it means" 
And I am thinking this is how story tellers are born. 

My notion that the new ones on this planet are too fast to notice just faded away.