The trees bow before the wind
rushing down from the mountains.
A mama bear scents the air,
smells the first chill of Winter.
She urges her cubs to take
shelter as golden leaves fly
around them: birch and aspen.

Gunshots! No, not man, not this
time, thank God. It's the report
from cracking ice before a
glacier calves and falls into
the sea. Sounds the same. Result:
something beautiful dies as
Nature gives and takes away.

Birds sound different here in
The Big Land. Ravens gurgle,
croak and knock; eagles chatter,
peal and cry for their mates; the
desperate calls of seagulls
follow the wake of cruise ships,
hoping someone will feed them.

Whales blow, slap the surface of
the ocean with their tails and
disappear. They map out their
world through sound, haunting refrains
sung deep in the throat. The fjords
echo with their songs as they
search for food to sustain them.

Moose groan and grunt; caribou
scrape velvet from their antlers;
otters chirp, splash and play; Dall
sheep and mountain goats remain
in the crags, high above; and
Native drums beat in rhythm
to the songs of The People.