Purchtie on the ledge of rock, the artist looked down from her vantage point.

The valley stretched out ahead of her, lush vegetation surrounding the river running

through its middle, yellow brown hills flanking the corridor of green with the ribbon of blue

at its heart.

Her encampment sat just below her ledge, close enough that she could smell the fresh caught

fish cooking over the hearts and hear the sound of conversation.

The clacking of stone on stone told her that somebody, out of sight around a corner

of the rocky outcropping, was napping new stone tools.

A vague scraping sound meant that someone was preparing a hide.

That grinding noise came from people hard at work grinding up grass seeds.

But she had a different task.

Next to her, balanced precariously on the rock ledge, were two flat stones, one with a

dab of red paint on top, the other white.

Above her, as high as her arm could reach, the rock wall was covered with images.

There was a barberry sheep with great white curling horns.

Next to it was a herd of elephants and beside them a giraffe.

A horizontal series of human figures drawn in red paint, danced and twisted their way

down a long row.

The artist was proud of them.

Looking down at the river, she saw a splash.

A hippopotamus she thought and reached down for her paints.

The artists' people were newcomers to these lands.

...