Water vapor and fire. Crows filled the skies as we sat, gathered together around a sacred fire of scrap and forest wood which roared as the wind whipped through the tan, leafless trees. The moon shown clear in the deep blue, the sun low in the west, casting the first signs of dusk as golden light creeping up the cottonwood tree trunks and branches. This land, these forgotten urban lots, woodlands, soft earth, held us as we spoke our names and our prayers out into the clear crisp late afternoon air, our tongues and precious mouths followed by water vapor with each word, akin to bison breathing in the cold and holy nights of Solstice time.
