Wapun Meadow morningsong

she dipped her head slowly, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at her lips as she acknowledged his words. the rhythm people, she repeated, her tone thoughtful, as though rolling the name over in her mind like a smooth stone. there is wisdom in that, to celebrate what is certain. the seasons come whether we thrive or falter, and yet they remain.

her amber gaze softened as it met his again, a flicker of curiosity brightening their depths. tell me more of your people, she asked, her voice quieter now, almost reverent. how do you live by the rhythm? what do you teach your young of it?

she paused, her gaze flicking briefly to the horizon, then back to him. perhaps there is joy in following the caribou. there is clarity. and a reminder of what matters.