Stumps of long-dead ponderosa pines covered the hill. With all of the building that had gone on over the past fifty sun cycles, the larger trees had been chopped down and laboriously carried to the towns and villages as roof supports for rooms or kivas. Even the branches were tied together and used as lintels for the windows. As far as he could see, the slopes were barren of the big trees. The weather-grayed stumps looked melancholy, as if remembering the towering giants that had once shaded the slopes. Gray-and-white squirrels must have played there, and the deer lurked in those cool shadows. Even the duff had washed away to leave exposed yellow soil. Rivulets had begun to eat into the soil around the parched roots, cutting away at the last of their rotting memories. Buckthorn rubbed the back of his hot neck as he looked into the canyon before him. The future lay down there, not among the fading ghosts of dead trees. Cloud People trailed gauzy filaments of rain as they glided northward.
