A rush of birch leaves carried to their place of autumnal permanence, she sits among burnished boulders, her long crow-black hair gently lifted in the wind's free will, as she can sense, always - her people speak in the wind, from where there were unspoiled forests, plains, and mountains with their footprints, where the nights' skies were bursting with stars, they had a oneness of their tribal hearts, their peace with the eagles, bears, wolves, buffalo, their braves' horses painted, then came an unnatural thunderous fire that scorched their lands, they were cruelly driven out - but their culture will never perish. They speak in the wind, in their spiritual drum beats, their songs, from ancestors' blood in their veins, ancient, yet youthful, their music in flowing pristine breezes, melodic in cold streams, rivers, resting in the stillness on a calm turquoise lake.