Our People sing the Songs of the Ancestors and moan from the emptiness of their stomachs. The ache of stomach grows to the ache of heart as many of our People join the Great Spirit and sing no more. I hold you and you hold me as we sing and are weak and cold beneath the skins of last year's hunt. We know the Great Spirit is angry with our People for He has taken many of our brothers and sisters. Our People cry between the Songs of our Ancestors.
Tears stream beneath the skins as the whiteness still falls and all of the food is long past eaten.
Then comes the wet heat. The skin of our people feels like summer Earth beneath the high sun, it sweats and does not stop for many days. There is no medicine to stop the heat for the Great Spirit is angry with our People. We sing the Songs of our Ancestors and pray to the Great Spirit not to take more of our People, but each day more are taken. Shaking like branches in the fiercest storm they burn and sweat and moan.