Smoke and song

I hurriedly snuggle deep into my sleeping bag a couple hours after the sun has set and the full moon has risen. Smoke from the many fires fills the air, coyotes sometimes yip in the distance but the abrasive sounds of helicopters surveilling and small planes circling never ceases.

Now the hammering also continues long after dark, as folks scramble to complete winter structures before the snow, even more cold, and icy wind descend upon the plain. Then the barking of dogs intermittently breaks into the silence of the night.

Drums beat and First Nation People fierce songs lift with the smoke, eerily blending and meshing with the howling wind and muted glow of the omnipotent moonlight, long into the night, laying down rhythmic peaceful resonance floating over to dull the whumph of helicopters & the buzzing of drones.

It is rarely quiet here, but it is never dark: the black snake pipeline klieg spot lights illuminate a path just north of the river as it sneaks closer and closer to the Missouri, while all through the camps the lights from the dozens of sacred campfires flicker brightly, dimming only toward sunrise to be stoked again before breakfast.