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On the Crest of the Winter Moon
The mountain pines swayed gently in the cold December breeze as the moon’s bright light shone through the branches. Whispered voices mingled with the night and carried upon the wind.
Their words were deep and ancient as they repeated “Waní-Wí-Iphá,” the Lakota name for the crest of the winter moon. From tree to tree, their voices echoed through the forest as they scaled down from the heights of the tall pines.
The čanotila, the tree-dwellers, leaped from their wooded homes, their root-like feet landing softly on the forest floor. The moon reflected off the sheen of the bark-like skin as they gathered at the feet of the mighty pines. The forest spirits stood no taller than the young saplings they resembled and, if not for their vaguely human faces, could easily be mistaken for a small grow of new trees. Growths of pine needles sprouted at odd angles from their bodies; some had thick coats of needles along their branch-like arms like winged creatures, and others grew to like the manes of wild horses or lions. Pine needles completely covered the bodies of others like rough, green fur.
Once, their tree homes had stretched wide between the canyons, but now their forest was little more than a narrow stretch of woods. It was increasingly encroached upon by the untended plains, which continued to grow without the Lakota to set the controlled…
