It is here on this ridge

    exposed to the orange dusk

    of mountain autumn

    that the story begins.

    Buck wood for the stove

    feel the heat of shoulder to tendon

    greet the mule deer

    and water the garden again.

    In rhythm， with song

    when the ax begins to blend with wind

    carry on to warmer days

    on the river's open banks

    where the fervor of healing is found in water.

    Flow from one origin to another——

    there is never a place where we cannot begin

    where the current is ancient， the wind is young

    teaching each other like the ax and the wood.

    Carve a place for dignity

    plant a seed and pray for rain

    for sun

    for understanding outside your self.

    There will come a day when they say：

    who do you think you are

    and another day will come

    for you to tell.

    On that day the story will appear

    but do not tell of yourself

    tell the story of the staff that blossomed in the desert

    or the one about your enemy's greatest victory

    tell the story of somewhere else