Blackfoot Forest when night fell she placed hand upon breast; prayed for weeping days of rain

She returns the smile, pleased by his willingness to help. Another small adjustment is not expecting. There is no obligation between them, but he is offering to help anyway, and she knows to be grateful for it. "They are usually purple or white, with five petal flowers. The flowers form a cluster at the top of the stem." They like the cold, she knows, but if they fare in heavy snow she is unsure. 

"Thank you," Poet tells him, then smiles again, a more subtle twist to the delicate line of her mouth. "They carry still a connection to life: bones, feathers, things of that nature." The sinner lowers her head, resuming her careful examination of the forest ground. With any luck the pair will turn up at least something. Something she can use to mark her intent, even if bringing the altar to completion takes years.