On a sunny August afternoon, on the Pine Ridge Reservation, I stood on the side of my mother’s house and looked briefly to the east. My mom and I had just finished prepping some offerings on her front porch and I had gone around to the east side of the house to return some of the materials to the ground.

The August grass in the field was high, yellowing and drying out. A movement in my peripheral vision caused me to look towards the field. Normally the field was empty except for visitors coming up the dirt road that stretched a few hundred feet from the house to a gravel road that ran north and south.

In the field about halfway between the house and the gravel road, walking to the south, was a black-clothed guy, whose slightly forward-leaning walk caused his long hair to hang in front of his face. I could only see him from the waist up since the high grass hid his legs.

After watching him for a few seconds, I briefly looked down to pour out the last of the offerings. When I looked towards the field again he was gone. I stood there for awhile before walking out into the field.