I Wonder If, In The Dark Night

I Sometimes Think The Contemporary White American Is More Culturally Deprived Than The Indian.

My Line Of Vision Was Such That The Creature Filled The Moon Like A Fossil. It Had Gone There, I Thought, To Live And Die, For There, Of All Places, Was Its Small Definition Made Whole And Eternal

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.

The Kiowas Reckoned Their Stature By The Distance They Could See.

There Is A Great Good In Returning To A Landscape That Has Had Extraordinary Meaning In One's Life. It Happens That We Return To Such Places In Our Minds Irresistibly. There Are Certain Villages And Towns, Mountains And Plains That, Having Seen Them Walked In Them Lived In Them Even For A Day, We Keep Forever In The Mind's Eye. They Become Indispensable To Our Well-being; They Define Us, And We Say, I Am Who I Am Because I Have Been There, Or There.