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“Look,” said Robinson Crusoe. “The grass.” “Look,” said Hawkeye. “The light.” The clouds had moved away from the mountains, opening a path to the sky. From where they sat, the old Indians and Coyote watched the prairies lean away and turn blue and green and gold as the edges of sunlight touched the storm. It was as if a bright fire had sprung up in the deep grass, running before the wind, seeking the world ablaze with colour. “How beautiful it was,” said the Lone Ranger. “Yes,” said Ishmael. “How beautiful it is.” “It is ever changing,” said Robinson Crusoe. “It remains the same,” said Hawkeye.” — Thomas King
Look,” said Robinson Crusoe. “The grass.”
“Look,” said Hawkeye. “The light.”
The clouds had moved away from the mountains, opening a path to the sky. From where they sat, the old Indians and Coyote watched the prairies lean away and turn blue and green and gold as the edges of sunlight touched the storm. It was as if a bright fire had sprung up in the deep grass, running before the wind, seeking the world ablaze with colour.
“How beautiful it was,” said the Lone Ranger.
“Yes,” said Ishmael. “How beautiful it is.”
“It is ever changing,” said Robinson Crusoe.
“It remains the same,” said Hawkeye.