These mountains have teeth, talking in ash and earthquake, and then silent. Lore spews forth from their huckleberry fields, seasonal rounds of medicines and comfort. Grandmothers teach old ways, the basket and weaver of stories. I feel the tinge of spirit run my spine like porcupine, goosebumps raised

with the visions of Wah-Tee-Tahs, small in the mirror of the winds. Skookums, in shadow, wait to raise the child to elder. On the banks, waiting for Salmon, Coyote plays a silly game, and gives life back to the hungry, and the lost.