I stand on the edge of this cliff. The wind shoots through my hair and rearranges my feathers that were so carefully chosen. I can smell the scent of buffalo meat, smokey and full of spices, as it roasts over the fire. The hides are freshly skinned and in preparation for tanning. As I look down on my camp I see the stories that the smoke tries to tell as it carelessly dances with the fierce wind. Each tee pee telling it's own story. An individual life belongs to it, the hides and wood that form it have much to tell. I see my mother hobble from the fire, adorned in shells stringed to a necklace that falls almost to her waist. Her silver hair twisted with the pungent smell of leaves and feathers blows in the wind also, creating a small tornado with the smoke nearby. A small boy peeks out from behind his tent and chases one of the camp dogs around the cooking meat; only making the salivating canine more hungry.

The young warriors huddle just behind the longhouse mixing the red of bark with berry juice. I see them marking their faces and chests, wanting to take pride in their new positions within camp. It was a well run family. It was.

Alas, as I stand here, I only see what was. The sounds of guns filling my ears as the cries of my people rise above that smoke. They came and took our land and didn't want to share what already belonged to us. They killed without heart never caring about ours. How I wish it could still be the way we used to live; with feathers in our hair and the pride of the eagle in our hearts.