""My grandfather is dead," Abel said. "You must bury him."... "My grandfather is dead," Abel repeated. His voice was low and even. There was no emotion, nothing."

“The young Plains culture of the Kiowas withered and died like grass that is burned in the prairie wind. ...in every direction, as far as the eye could see, carrion lay out on the land. The buffalo was the animal representation of the sun, the essential and sacrificial victim of the . When the wild herds were destroyed, so too was the will of the Kiowa people; there was nothing to sustain them in spirit.”

“They began a long migration from the headwaters of the eastward to the and south to the . ...In alliance with the s they held dominion in the southern Plains for a hundred years.”

“The journey began one day long ago on the edge of the northern Plains. It was carried on over the course of many generations... For the s the beginning was a struggle for existence in the bleak northern mountains.”

“My Grandmother was a Storyteller;She knew her way around Words.She never learned to read and write, but somehowShe knew the good of reading and writing;She had learned how to Listen and Delight.She had learned that in Words and in Language,and there only,She could have whole and consummate Being.You see for Her, Words were Medicine.They were Magic and Invisible.They came from Nothing into Sound and Meaning.They were beyond price.They could neither be bought nor sold, andShe never threw Words away.She told me Stories andShe taught me how to Listen.I was a Child, and I Listened.”

“...and he began to run after them. He was running... and there was no reason to run but running itself and the land and the dawn appearing. The sun rose... and shone in shafts upon the road across the snow-covered valley and hills. ...His legs buckled and he fell in the snow. ...And he got up and ran on. He was alone and running on... he was past caring about the pain... and he could see at last without having to think. He could see the canyons and the mountains and the sky. He could see the rain and the river and the fields beyond... and under his breath he began to sing... House made of pollen, house made of dawn...”

“The mortar fire had stopped. ...The silence had awakened him—and the low, even mutter of the machine that was coming. ...His vision cleared and he saw the countless leaves dip and sail across the splinters of light. The machine... was coming. ...The sound of the machine brimmed at the ridge ...whole and deafening. His mouth fell open upon the cold, wet leaves, and he began to shake violently. ...Then, through the falling leaves, he saw the machine. It rose up behind the hill, black and massive, looming there in front of the sun, He saw it swell, deepen, and take shape on the skyline, as if it were some upheaval of earth. ...For a moment it seemed apart from the land ...Then it came crashing down to the grade, slow as a waterfall, thunderous, surpassing impact, nestling almost into the splash and boil of debris. He was shaking violently, and the machine bore down upon him, came close, and passed him by. A wind arose and ran along the slope, scattering the leaves.”