If I had two

��Pent Oak or scrub cotton woods close to brook or stream in a low laying spot of some shade and a cool prevailing breeze that could blow unobstructed through the two.
��Where my loom could stay permanently affixed and a few head of churro could graze continently without a need to wander far from range or watchful eye of a good shelty dog or other breed with a love for that type of work and a love of just being around that range and hogan's door, and even clean enough of habit to allow him, or her more likely because of a better nature in that sex for the work and dependence and habit of cleanliness to allow her into the hogan door and on the bed for a combined warmth of body's heat on dog cold nights of winter that did warrant it.

��The combined need of wool and meat and water for washing fleece and self and dog would be found and found convenient in the wood and good flow of the river flowing full time through that place where those cotton wood and black oak grew to more stature than is their norm in an arid clime, and would allow those churro to graze and fatten and multiply under their protection and that of the shelty dog and so give them no cause to wonder, fat from that place.

��Fat also dripping down from mutton fixed to a spit over a slow flame on an outdoor fireplace to stay handy to tending and stay hunger for that dog and the weaver at loom of loom's wood.

��"Loom's Wood," is newly named from old forgotten names, after enough days of new people passing to become aware of what is contained within that wood for enough years of those days and enough of those people passing and stopping in on that weaver, shelty dog and that hogan, those churro under those cotton wood and black oak growing along the bank of that babbling river coming from deep under, to bend through this wood.

��Stopping out of curiosity at first, but then time passes as time does and so bonds are made and friendships with some of those stopping by are made as well as other relationships that go deeper than casual friendships, and also some that are much less than friendships.
Though nothing a word to that shelty dog can't handle in good and short order.

��So leaves fall and time passes and new leaves grow to replace what has fallen to the ground and then they also fall in their time.
��A mist rises from the water with the setting of the sun and a fog is burned away when it rises once more to kiss the water's suffice.
��The bank of that shore is in constant flux from the rains of that season and the snow melting far away and above that wood and then retreating back to their ebb from summers dryness and the sun's drawing what little moisture is there in that arid land.

��Still, all that dwell in that place seem not to notice the steady marking of the passage of time.
From the fall and rebirth of the leaves or the change in the season or the birth and then death to each cycle in its time and all that live within.

��Within each minute of that passage is a sameness, each to the next and yet another thing is also contained within, that is just as real as the march of those cycles of time and the sameness of each of those cycles, and a thing that is almost its opposite, in that it is change.

��Change is contained within each of those seconds that trickle past that hogan's door and that wood there on that bend of the river.

��Building up or wearing down, growing older or being renewed, being born and also dying makes part of the reason that in all the sameness of these cycles, nothing is ever the same, and yet in the long view it is just the same as it always was and always will be continuously and forever.

��It is because of this or in spite of this that the weaver has affixed the loom permanently to the living, growing bodies of those trees in that wood. In spite of this or because of this that the weaver has chosen this place among the trees and in their company to try to create a thing of simple cloth to outlast himself by days or years or lifetimes.
����A simple cloth covering that will cary a coded message within its simple patterns that is a code of himself and perhaps only understood by that weaver and yet a carrying forth beyond days, the code that is part of that weavers spirit.

��A recorded message of how well that weaver has learned the teachings of the loom. For it is only these lessons that are granted to those with the endurance and forbearance to learn that holds true value.
��This simple covering that is had from the weavers skill at the loom is only a by-product of those lessons, no matter how perfect the weave or how beautiful the cloth.