when time ceased to matter, when i measured its passage by moon and stars in southern skies, i took an elk with my bow. tired yet still proud, he was alone as i. seeming to await my arrival patiently, he stood resolutely, unflinching at my sight and smell. our eyes met mid arrow's flight, and he smiled at me as death thumped into his heart. sighing in harmony with the singing of my bow, he bent his knees and laid down his life there in the grass. he was dead when i reached him.

i knelt on the canyon's floor, beside my brother, and cut out his heart. i raised his life to the sky, and then ate it. the bull's spirit left this world as his life's blood ran down my chin.

this gift was not wasted, and while he traveled better paths, his final smiling benediction gave me new life. his brain-tanned hide replaced my weary boots, and guarded me against the night's bitter chill. his sinews were thread to sew with splintered bone a jacket and rude trousers that were tougher than the mountains themselves. the point of an antler replaced my broken knife's hilt, his guts enticed silvery trout in crystal streams. the sun dried meat of his shoulders and haunch filled me, sustaining me. his shoulder blades i chipped into arrow points, and his bones a marker became, mutely crying "here passed a hunter, to whom i gave my life".

grandfather's ghost smiled softly, nodding approval at the way i wasted nothing. what i could not use i left for the hungry wild things, the wolverines and the bears.

long did my journey continue, until i came to a fold in the shoulder of a mountain. a snowmelt stream raced by, murmuring in a bed of boulders and stubborn cattails. nearby, fingers of hardwoods reached from under an evergreen canopy.

intending to be gone in the morning, i made my camp. using the knife papa gifted me when a boy, i dug a pit in the loamy earth. the stream's smooth bedclothes lined it, and i strode into the forest, gathering the bounty of its floor. with offerings from ancient oaks bound loosely with rope, i returned and built a fire into which i fed last gift of dying trees. i warmed my weary feet and calloused hands in its dancing glow. the sun soon set on distant peaks, and night fell upon me with all its savage beauty. the fire watched me drift off, and guarded me through the night.

the sun burned holes in my eyes as i awoke. rising, i greeted her with an offering of smoke, cattail roots, duck eggs, and the bacon from an unlucky sow. satisfied, i drank from the cold stream, washed my face, and filled my waterskin.

the day warmed, but not much. i was too high to really be warm. as i strapped my life to my back, preparing to leave, something gave me pause. i looked over the meadow filled with wildflowers, and from behind me in the forest's depths, a solitary wolf sang his loneliness. my pack slipped from fingers suddenly numb, fevered chills caressed the nape of my neck, and an inner voice raised its rich tenor to the contralto wolf-song, singing quietly, "this is the place".

it took all the skill i had to fell and shape the logs that formed my cabin. i carved two new axe handles from hickory deadfalls, and my back ached from the summer's long days of happy labor. the stream yielded clay and stones for hearth and chimney. i chinked the walls inside and out with red mud from it's bed. i worked from sunup to nightfall, worried that winter would rush me like an angry bear, and catching me unawares, force me to flee this place.

it took shape, one laborious sweaty layer at a time, on a small rise yards from stream and forest. in those waters lived fish, and i discovered apples and wild berries in the woods. again, i hunted, never seeing the wolf that i knew was watching. what i could not use, i left for him, and it was bountiful. he sang his thanks to me in his mournful solitary contralto.

at long last, my labor finished, i fashioned a door from rough sawn planks, and made oiled windows from the last of my paper. winter descended, harsh and stern under unforgiving skies.

long did that winter last, many many moons waxed and waned. the mountain above and behind assaulted my home with snow and ice and biting winds. i hunted, i grubbed for roots, i melted ice and snow for my daily drink, and i survived. i know the wolf had a hard go of it, for every night the oaks and pines resonated with his lament for the silent death upon the face of the world. he and i endured the long night, each safe and warm in cabin and den, sleepily content no matter the fury outside.

then, as is the course of all natural things, the bawling tempests and deathly storms howled themselves out. life began anew. the meadow's flowers burst exuberantly from the ground, the stream threw off winters' grip, the trees pushed leaves out every twig until they seemed impossibly green. i exhumed my seeds from a long unused pack, and planted a garden of tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, carrots, and potatoes. times were lean until the earth brought forth it's first fruit, and after, the rich soil's blessing sustained me.

i added to my home, fashioning a table, two chairs, and a mantle from green woods, bending and shaping with axe and knife until they were comfortable. a lean-to rested, newly built, against the eastern wall of the cabin, filled to overflowing with wood hard fought and won from the dead trees deep inside the forest. i dug a root cellar, and filled it with preserved meat, dried fish, and the fruits of the garden. steps fashioned from rounded stones and bound together with clay i planted before my door. i rendered the fat of three peccaries into soap, combining the drippings with lye steeped from the ashes of my fires. at long last, i was cleansed.

working quietly, almost reverently, a bed next i made, from oak and woven rushes. the oak was a sturdy frame where i wove the rushes, laying my mattress made of shredded cattails. the downy softness of them sewn inside the last of my canvas, i once again slumbered in comfort. the wolf and i sang each other to sleep.

the seasons (and i was aware of them again, for the moon was no longer an adequate keeper of time) changed again, and i noted a welcome chill, the sharp teeth in the air, the silvery hoar of frost on the meadow. the summer was fleeting, so full of improvements, so wrought with labor and sweat and tears of frustration and eventual triumph. it fled and was gone before i even noticed it leaving. fall was short, the trees releasing their leaves that fell in into piles of gold and amber and yellow glory littering the forest's floor.

the first snow fell soon after, dusting my valley in great sheets of aching white. one bitter cold day, as the light faded in deference to impending night, i sat eating my evening meal, preparing for winter's grip, readying myself for the lonesome sojourn ahead.

astonishingly, there came a knock, afraid to be heard, that brushed softly my door. within the space of a single heartbeat, i felt elation, knew fear, cried for sadness, laughed for joy, fought back pain, befriended terror and embraced happiness. there came a pounding from my chest, as the elk's heart beat madly, chasing the wind in his primeval heaven. we raced and lept through vale and glen, and in the vaults of my soul, i saw his last smile, and understood his gift at last. my mind screamed not to answer that subtle salutation, but the deeper, more powerful things i had consumed with my brother's heart forced my hand.

i rushed to open the latch, and wrestled frantically with it, for it was stuck. fearing that no-one would be there, finally i flung wide the entry, and beheld there a traveler more weary than ever i had seen before. a worn and tired sojourner, who's trail was far longer and much steeper than ever mine was. the tattered, stained clothes, the bruised hands, a dirty face, and broken posture bore screaming testimony to pain so unbearable it tore me in places only my soul knew existed.

wonderingly, fearfully, the wanderer's eyes met mine, and the questions there remained unasked, unsaid. there was no conflict in me, as i took the proffered hand, led the sufferer inside, and bade "please, sit at my table. fill yourself with fruits from my garden, from the sacrifices of days gone by. warm yourself in the light and heat of my fire". then kneeling, i tenderly bathed the feet of my guest, soothing as best i could the wounds i found there. words were unspoken, unnecessary, and inadequate, as tears fell from our eyes.

outside, my friend the wolf howled his joyous approval. for the first time, another voice rose in perfect harmony with his, adding her blessed soprano to his contralto, and my heart sang inside me.