Indians Are Marvelous Storytellers. In

In The Beginning Was The Word, And It Was Spoken.

They Have Assumed The Names And Gestures Of Their Enemies, But Have Held On To Their Own, Secret Souls; And In This There Is A Resistance And An Overcoming, A Long Outwaiting.

The Character Of The Landscape Changes From Hour To Hour, Day To Day, Season To Season. Nothing Of The Earth Can Be Taken For Granted; You Feel That Creation Is Going On In Your Sight. You See Things In The High Air That You Do Not See Farther Down In The Lowlands. In The High Country All Objects Bear Upon You, And You Touch Hard Upon The Earth. From My Home I Can See The Huge, Billowing Clouds; They Draw Close Upon Me And Merge With My Life.

For The Storyteller, For The Arrowmaker, Language Does Indeed Represent The Only Chance For Survival.

It's A Landscape That Has To Be Seen To Be Believed. And, As I Say On Occasion, It May Have To Be Believed In Order To Be Seen.