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When you speak,
seeing not through 
your self but through
the eyes of the land,
the voice you hear
is no longer yours.
You have not planned
the words you speak,
your only script
is the indrawn breath
that brings to you
the scent of pine,
brings to your throat
the first morning mist,
brings to your lungs
the cedar smoke 
from the fire
where stones are
the heartbeat of flame.
So you speak
and what you say
when it is given
voice this way
speaks with the wind
and all things that breathe,
wli dogo wongan,
all our relations.


Speaking, by Joseph Bruchac


A glorious morning with a thoroughly satisfying hike to match. Went over Bernard, wandered off the trail onto the ledges and was pleased to find my "hidden" seat once more. The soundscape was so peaceful I decided to record it for a bit, sitting very quietly listening to the nearby hermit thrush, a far away loon on the pond at the base of the mountain, some juncos chittering away, after a time some surprising nuthatches and then, out of nowhere, a black throated green warbler. Also the wind in the trees, the dry grass scraping on the rocks, grasshoppers. I was very quiet so as not to ruin the recording, and really let it run for awhile because it seemed like there was always something new and and I wanted to catch it all. Of course in the end it turns out I had never pressed start and hadn't been recording anything. Which was just fine.