A Season on the Rez

The sky was milk white and vaulted. A squall tugged at sagebrush and sent dust devils spinning off the mesas. Millenniums of rain and the holy winds, the Niłch’i Diyini, had carved the washes and gulches and canyons that folded into the skin of this land. To survey this world in the chill of November was to feel loneliness crawl

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