Sands of Time

Journal- May 27, 1866

May 27, 1866

Papa is telling me more about Coyote. One day Geese and Lizard found fire and ran to tell Coyote. He thought they were playing him for a fool, until dusk settled and he saw the sparks of fire creeping into the night sky. Mouse, who is the flute player, told Coyote that he would bring back fire to them.

He ran and grabbed his four flutes, and scurried to fire. He filled all four full of flames. Coyote eager ran to mouse to see what was taking so long. Mouse, the Flute Player, told Coyote to have the people gather wood in the assembly house, and he would bring them fire.

When Mouse returned he leaped onto the roof, and played his flute slowly, letting the coals trickle onto the wood sparking fire. Coyote interrupted his song, shouting with impatiens. Only the people around the fire could hear what Flute Player was saying. Coyote far from the fire could only shout not hearing the Flute Player either.

The North, the East, and the South of the fire could hear Flute Players song faintly, so that is why they all speak differently. Only the ones closest to the flames can speak the words of fire. The center of the fire is our homeland Yosemite, and the four tribes are circled around that.

Coyote in his impatiens to hear the Flute Players song crippled our language. Papa feels this is why we have not claimed our lands back from what the white men have taken from us. Papa and Mama left our tribe right after I was born, after a failed promise of land from the white man's government was revoked. We were left marooned.

We now live on the Ranch Papa works at. Mama does house work, and I help her and Papa. The Ranch is the biggest place I have ever seen. Tanned colored walls cover the massive structure of a six bedroom house. Enormous windows stare out at you. The feelings of eyes watching you are everywhere.

The Ranch follows around the curves of the property stretching across countless acres of land. I run as fast as my feet will follow in between the corn fields. I unbound my long hair and it snags, becoming entwined in the wind and branches.

I lie about who I am, but in my private moments in nature my soul emerges, and I leave all the prejudice behind me.

-Petra