Wapun Meadow morningsong

You see what you hunt. I see what they are.

Ah, spiritualists. Or latent naturalists, he supposed, depending on how deeply introspective they were and how literal their study. The way she spoke of the caribou, however, led him to believe it was the former.

There was a great love for the ungulates in her low, even tone, just by the way she spoke of them. With appreciation. In reverence. Her amber eyes looked for understanding upon his face and she would find it in the curve of his knowing satin smile.

It does. Almost a murmur, as his mind seemed to go beyond them, beyond her and the deer, back to a memory not-so-distant from this time. I am of the Rhythm people. You see in the deer what we see in the seasons. Their inevitability grounds us. Their occurrence is a thing to celebrate.

Was there joy in following the reindeer, too? They were certainly not as infallible as the four eternal seasons, in his opinion, but they each reaped personally from such an affair felt familiar to him.