He wondered then. Wondered where they had gone. All those that had left him. The ones death had taken. Maybe over to the old mountain. Maybe that's where they dwell now. Or down at the foot of the canyon, where things sometimes grow, where dead things come alive again, sometimes. He wondered when it would rain again.
He'd been gathering firewood that day. But the wood was dry, dry & brittle. Burnt up too fast & the smoke stung his eyes. Maybe if I cry a little the ones who've gone will hear me. But he didn't cry. And he felt too that it can't be far, the place the spirits of the dead fly off to. Sometimes when the wind hit him just right or a bird came by he felt himself in the presence of his brothers. And his sisters were of the earth, he was sure of that. You scoop up soil & hold them in your hand. And then it is just like this fire. The wood doesn't go away, it just turns to smoke. Then once it's up there it turns into air. And little specks of your brothers come down with the rain. It really is like that, yes.