Bitterroot Valley ✢ And his eyes all over me

her words tangled like river reeds, soft and warm and full of places he did not know. mother. she spoke of mother.

his head tilted, golden eyes steady on her face. your… mom? he asked, the word in his tongue slipping out rough and strange. tʉba. he said it again, slower, the sound like gravel under water. in ute, we say tʉba. mean… mother.

he shifted closer, the light catching in the scars along his shoulder. ten, he murmured, voice breaking through the weight of his accent, where is your tʉba now? she wait for you?