11pm and I am out walking the ranch. I hear the horses splash through the river as they cross. No, I am not usually out this late walking. I stand and just listen. Faint at first – people talking and I catch a whiff of wood smoke. They are not speaking English something old – older than Crow – guttural, low but pleasing to the ear. A child cries and I hear the yip of a coyote and I know that the coyote is on my side of the rift and the native people camped by the river are on the other.
Something tells me to turn and look to the Wolf Mountains and as I do I see the blood red moon rising silhouette black pine on blood red moon.
The rift vanishes as the moon rises and I am left with the faint smell of woodsmoke – my thoughts flow with the river water rushing onward – slowed for a moment’s glimpse past, present, future stained blood red.