Sitka tries to shout, but his throat is wind. He tries to reach, but his arms are pinions. Feathers erupt from his shoulders—black, tipped with white, the pattern of a bald eagle. His spirit does not fall. It rises.
When dawn breaks over Sitka, Alaska, the eagle circles once. Then twice. Then disappears into the sun. sitka brother bear
When Sitka opens his eyes, he is falling upward. Sitka tries to shout, but his throat is wind
He watches for days. Or perhaps it is years. Time in the spirit realm smells like cedar smoke and tastes like melted snow. Sitka tries to shout