You are the dark shape I find On nights of the spilling moon, Pale in the pool of heaven. — N. Scott Momaday, from “Revenant” <i>The Death of Sitting… - N. Scott Momaday

Once in his life a man ought to concentrate his mind upon the remembered earth. He ought to give himself up to a particular landscape in his experience; to look at it from as many angles as he can, to wonder about it, to dwell upon it. He ought to imagine that he touches it with his hands at every season and listens to the sounds that are made upon it. He ought to imagine the creatures there and all the faintest motions of the wind. He ought to recollect the glare of the moon and the colors of the dawn and dusk.

you imagine there is nothing within, and indeed there are many ghosts, bones given up to the land. They stand here and there against the sky, and you approach them for a longer time than you expect. They belong in the distance; it is their domain.

It is said that hawks, when they have nothing to fear in the open land, dance upon the warm carnage of their kills.