(no subject)

[not_ho_chunk]

There is a burned circle on the ground out by the lake.

And there is an old man standing at the edge of it, leaning heavily on his stick.

Birds can't shed tears. But he's singing words few here will recognise, voice creaky, singing for Coyote.

Later, there will be cold calm and dangerous intent. But for now, there is mourning for what is lost. All in its own time.