Yesterday afternoon, here in Montana, my two grandsons and I hunkered down by the small stream that flows past my cabin. Using stones and twigs and sticks and plants, we built a miniature village with a wall around it, a sacred gate, a totem pole, two dwellings, a fire circle, and a path to the huge river, over which we built a bridge. We composed a chant involving the village crane (he was paper origami, nesting in a tree we had built from a forked stick) and then, chanting, we flew him to the river and let him sail away on its waves.


A large worm appeared, suddenly, in our little village, and was immediately dubbed Beast of the East.

It was all intriguing and exciting. But today it wasn't, anymore, and the boys went off to other things.

Village 1Village 2Village 3Village 5