They’re interesting as works of art. If I had a big cedar cabin jutting off the edge of a tall green mountain lined in thirsty pines and ancient rotting leaves,

They’re interesting as works of art. If I had a big cedar cabin jutting off the edge of a tall green mountain lined in thirsty pines and ancient rotting leaves, I’d buy a pair and stick them on an upper level of an old bookshelf, somewhere in the glass lined living room that overlooks the power lines as they arc back down over the treetops.
If the winds were to come in over the horizon and push the fog off of the lake, you might see those lines ending, wafting into the tiny cluster of lights that announces the perimeter of civilization. You might stand in this room and see storm coalescing in the distance, day turning the color of smoke as you creak along weathered gray planks in bare feet, closing the shutters, starting a pot of coffee and lighting a joint as the clouds roll in. By the time those lake-fattened drops begin their tattoo upon the roof you’ll have drifted to another place, the same place, but older. Perhaps younger. For a time.
"There were a wild people living in these hills once," you’ll tell the boy (many years later). “They lived from the land and fashioned Gods from nature and the animals."
"What were their Gods like?" The boy will ask, one foot dangling in water, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun.
"They lived in the forest, and spoke through dreams. When the need arose they took the form of animals. To worship them, the people would carve towering pillars in their likeness."
"Totems?" The boy will ask.
"Very good." You will tell him.
There will be a moment of silence as the two of you begin climbing the hill for home and the child (ever curious) will ask you: “Are they dead now, those old Gods?"
You will see the boy struggling with his bag and shoulder it for him. You will hear the apprehension in his voice and answer, “They aren’t dead. Never dead. Only forgotten for a time."