Words Were Medicine; They Were Magic And

It Is Here That I Can Concentrate My Mind Upon The Remembered Earth. It Is Here That I Am Most Conscious Of Being, Here That Wonder Comes Upon My Blood, Here I Want To Live Forever; And It Is No Matter That I Must Die.

Coyotes Have The Gift Of Seldom Being Seen; They Keep To The Edge Of Vision And Beyond, Loping In And Out Of Cover On The Plains And Highlands. And At Night, When The Whole World Belongs To Them, They Parley At The River With The Dogs, Their Higher, Sharper Voices Full Of Authority And Rebuke. They Are An Old Council Of Clowns, And They Are Listened To.

There Was Only The Dark Infinity In Which Nothing Was. And Something Happened. At The Distance Of A Star Something Happened, And Everything Began. The Word Did Not Come Into Being, But It Was. It Did Not Break Upon The Silence, But It Was Older Than The Silence And The Silence Was Made Of It.

Her Name Is Ago, And She Belonged To The Last Culture To Evolve In North America.

I Am Interested In The Way That We Look At A Given Landscape And Take Possession Of It In Our Blood And Brain. None Of Us Lives Apart From The Land Entirely; Such An Isolation Is Unimaginable. If We Are To Realize And Maintain Our Humanity, We Must Come To A Moral Comprehension Of Earth And Air As It Is Perceived In The Long Turn Of Seasons And Of Years.