History   It got into everything, always did. It clung to our hands, sucked at our feet, crept into our homes, our beds, our food. The grit of it broke our teeth. Even when we slept we dreamed it — there was nothing else to dream. Then the whispering began: higher ground, as though we'd never thought of that. It seemed impossible at first, but soon the sound of those two words alone was all we heard — higher ground. By day we followed the sun, by night the stars. The wind was bright and stirred our hearts. By God, we would not be outdone. We drank and sang, we danced and fought. And then we watched the clouds close over us again.     © Michael Fleming New York, New York January 2001