I was sitting on a rock ledge out side of Canyon de Chelly one evening with Marcos de Niza and Kokopelli , in the twelth month, at the time of Solstice. Marcos excused himself and walked south.
I sat alone with the deity.
The cosmic casanova, the wandering minstrel the god of fertility and harvest.
The sun sank. He spoke.
“Fuck this! I’m fed up. I’m going to sit here and play my flute for the rest of eternity.”
And he did.
It should be noted that Kokopelli couldn’t play the flute worth shit.
That’s probably why everyone left.