We do not fly far.
We do not sing like the eagle or cry like the night owl.
But we remain —
Perched on the red branches that once grew from sacred fire.
We witnessed...
The drums echo by the riverbank — children dancing as elders spoke of the first raven.
The first steps beyond the forest, tracking deer, then returning because their hearts knew only soft earth.
We saw strangers arrive with hands of iron and voices that never listened — bringing fire and laws not born of the wind.
We saw...
Those who sat in silence — not from a lack of words, but because no one asked.
Those who buried prayers beneath cedar roots like seeds too afraid to bloom.
And still... some looked to the sky, rebuilt the old lodges, and taught their children to string the bow.
So we never left.
Even when the wind changed, even when the branches cracked.
We sit here still.
Not to speak —
But to remember for those who must.
