it was a fine day. the air felt crisp and clean, the weather pleasantly warm but with a hint of a cold twang that is a sign of soon-to-come winter.
indian summer, that brief interlude of time after fall and before the snows.
ahead of me stretched the vast and gently undulating land of tall grass, as far as the eye could see, color of which was changing from golden-yellow to soft soil-brown of the earth.
the wind made the tall grass sway with a gentle rhythm, like ripples on a lake.
i followed the barely-visible trail, the rustle of the dry grass against my knee-high moccasins making me stop for three or four times on the trail. it sounded to me almost like the warning of the death-rattler. i paused for a few moments and looked up to see the wise eagle slow down too. i knew he was keeping his eye on me. he would swoop in and keep me away from danger, if there was any.
by the time i could hear the gurgling waters of the brook, i was a little tired because i had walked faster than usual. i was excited, the fact that i might come across the few scouts on the ledge, left behind to protect the village, did not worry me today.
more than anything else in the world, i wanted to be the first one to see the war-party coming back, the younger braves laughing and talking, my father and the other war chiefs just as happy but their faces solemn as usual, holding their coup-sticks proudly, as on the day they set out.
i couldn't wait to see if others - braves, their women, the old ones, babies and especially boys and girls of my age, from our friends to the east came along too.
for this great plains with the huge herds of buffalo, were as much theirs as it was ours, this is where our ancestors sleep, the place we call home. true heaven is a place on earth; it's here and now.
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