He made a story for all of them, a story to give them strength. The words of the story poured out of his mouth as if they had substance, pebbles and stone extending to hold the corporal up...knees from buckling...hands from letting go of the blanket.

The truth of course was otherwise, but Lecha had never felt she owed anyone the truth, unless it was truth about their own lives, and then they had to pay her to tell them.

the snow ... came in thick tufts like new wool - washed before the weaver spins it.

The Indian wars have never ended in the Americas.

Things which don't shift and grow are dead things.

As long as the hummingbird had not abandoned the land, somewhere there were still flowers, and they could all go on.

The American public has difficulty believing ... [that] injustice continues to be inflicted upon Indian people because Americans assume that the sympathy and tolerance they feel toward Indians is somehow 'felt' or transferred to the government policy that deals with Indians. This is not the case.