Thanksgiving's Fragile Brotherhood

Oh. Hey. Oh. Yeah. Cold winds blew

off the cave that first November night. One hundred souls on a wooden

hope, too weary to fight. By spring, the graves were

double rows in the stony sand. Half the Mayflower's dreamers gone,

still we called it Promised Land. But out of the pines came a lifeline,

spoken soft and true. A greeting, seeds, and fishing lines

will share what we once knew. Three days in Plymouth. Fires on the

shore. Fifty battered pilgrims. Ninety warriors more. We broke our bread on borrowed