In dawn's hour, sun breaks on Big Pink, Mount Hood rising behind the temple like a distant father. Mist sleeps in the river where you await the tribe's return, on the east bank of the Willamette, knapping a blade from a broken bottle. Then, the flock begins to emerge from the cloud. Soundlessly, they glide toward you with perfect cohesion, that morning's catch strung from the Umiak. Master mariner signs to ready the ropes. Now, sweet cedar smoke is conjured from a fire board. The child raises her tinder bundle to the sky and from her lips draws the flame.