“So Lightning says to Mud,“What would happen if I struck your blood?”And Mud says, “Brother, It would hurt, And make me the motherOf every living thing.But, Fire Boy, you ain’t lifting my grass skirtUntil you burn me a ring.”

“I didn't know what to say to her. What do you say to people when they ask how it feels to lose everything? When every planet in your solar system has exploded?”

“1Cain lifts Crow, that heavy black birdand strikes down Abel.Damn, says Crow, I guessthis is just the beginning.2The white man, disguisedas a falcon, swoops inand yet again steals a salmonfrom Crow's talons.Damn, says Crow, if I could swimI would have fled this country years ago.3The Crow God as depictedin all of the reliable Crow bibleslooks exactly like a Crow.Damn, says Crow, this makes it so much easier to worship myself.4Among the ashes of Jericho, Crow sacrifices his firstborn son.Damn, says Crow, a million nestsare soaked with blood.5When Crows fight Crowsthe sky fills with beaks and talons.Damn, says Crow, it's raining feathers.6Crow flies around the reservationand collects empty beer bottlesbut they are so heavyhe can only carry one at a time.So, one by one, he returns thembut gets only five cents a bottle.Damn, says Crow, redemptionis not easy.7Crow rides a pale horseinto a crowded powwowbut none of the Indian panic.Damn, says Crow, I guessthey already live near the end of the world.”

“Drinking would shut down my seeing and my hearing and my feeling,' she used to say. 'Why would I want to be in the world if I couldn't touch the world with all of my senses intact?”

“and then she asks me how many sexual partners I've had and I say one or twodepending on your definition of what I did to Custer . . .”

“The white woman across the aisle from me says 'Look, look at all the history, that houseon the hill there is over two hundred years old, 'as she points out the window past meinto what she has been taught. I have learnedlittle more about American history during my few daysback East than what I expected and far lessof what we should all know of the tribal storieswhose architecture is 15,000 years olderthan the corners of the house that sitsmuseumed on the hill. 'Walden Pond, 'the woman on the train asks, 'Did you see Walden Pond? 'and I don't have a cruel enough heart to breakher own by telling her there are five Walden Pondson my little reservation out Westand at least a hundred more surrounding Spokane, the city I pretended to call my home. 'Listen, 'I could have told her. 'I don't give a shitabout Walden. I know the Indians were living storiesaround that pond before Walden's grandparents were bornand before his grandparents' grandparents were born.I'm tired of hearing about Don-fucking-Henley saving it, too, because that's redundant. If Don Henley's brothers and sistersand mothers and father hadn't come here in the first placethen nothing would need to be saved.'But I didn't say a word to the woman about WaldenPond because she smiled so much and seemed delightedthat I thought to bring her an orange juiceback from the food car. I respect eldersof every color. All I really did was eatmy tasteless sandwich, drink my Diet Pepsiand nod my head whenever the woman pointed outanother little piece of her country's historywhile I, as all Indians have donesince this war began, made plansfor what I would do and say the next timesomebody from the enemy thought I was one of their own.”

“The streetlight outside my house shines on tonight and I'm watching it like it could give me a vision. James ain't talked ever and he looks at that streetlight like it was a word and maybe like it was a verb. James wanted to streetlight me and make me bright and beautiful so all the moths and bats would circle me like I was the center of the world an held secrets.”