A story as told by the spirit of a wolf, seeing the arrival of French fur traders to an Anishinaabe village on Madeline Island approximately 1644 on the south shore of Lake Superior.

My tribe will forever be in this land,
on this island for our spirits run heavy in this place.

We are made of this place,
Turtle Island,
the island of islands.

And my spirit is the moon over the lake,
the vapor of the breaths of my descendants
when they run hard through the fields on cold nights
with stars all above and around them and
shining off the perfect calm of the water.

My spirit is in them when they are tracking deer on the cold winter days,
the chase and precise timing of the kill,
and sleeping curled together for warmth in deep snow,
their mouths covered in fresh, dried blood from their feasting.

My spirit is of the dark and wind and perfect stillness
before a summer storm and the sounds of slow,
rolling thunder off the lake, echoing through the trees.

My spiirt is the smell of wet grass and wildflowers,
and all the colors of the land and water and sky.

Someday when you are out walking in the woods
and you see a wolf out of the corner of your eye.

And you look that way and nothing is there.