Here is a one-word prompt for this evening.
The men were gone. The paleface men who came to mock our homes and put an American price tag on our way of life. I was in the hills that morning, holding heated confrontations with the men that would only ever happen in my head.
The sun was climbing the sky and washing his nurturing light across the land. The bushes around our little trailer were dry and speckled with the orange and red fire of the bush flowers. Those flowers were still closed and bashful in the light, too afraid to open and realize that spring had passed.
“We are part of this land, and you cannot own my way of life,” I said, and swung the dry branch I was holding in the brush. I felt the sun settling on my bare back and a black throated hawk curved in a lazy spin to my left. I spit into the earth at the bad omen and dusted my hands against by blue jeans.
“I will run the paleface away,” I said and started to trot up and over the low hills towards home, to tell my father what I planned to do, but he won’t listen to me. He stopped listening to me.