The dream becomes a story, a myth. . . . And the story becomes a dream. - N. Scott Momaday

...
I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water...
I am the farthest star... the cold of dawn... the roaring of the rain
I am the glitter on the crust of the snow
I am the long track of the moon in a lake
I am a flame of four colors...
I am the whole dream of these things You see, I am alive, I am alive
I stand in good relation to the earth... the gods... to all that is beautiful...
Mine is a... shield...
there is [the dangerous] anger... boasting in it
there is [the beautiful] yellow pollen... red earth in it. ...
there is [the sacred] vision... remembrance in it. ...
there is [the powerful] medicine... a in it.
My life is this shield...

A Witness to Creation

If you could have that one day back, the one that
you have kept a secret in your soul, what day would it be?
What? One among the many? Well, let me make you this offering:

It would be the day on which I stood on the rim of Monument Valley and beheld
those ineffable monoliths for the first time. I was young, you see, like a fledgling
who leaves the nest and flies out over the earth. I saw beyond time, into
timelessness. It was the first and holiest of all days. On such a day — on that original day — did the First Man behold the First World. It filled
him with wonder and humility. Then and there, looking for one enchanted
moment into eternity, I was the First Man. I was present at Creationl

It was simply that they were grave, distant, intent upon something that she could not see. Their eyes were held upon some vision out of range, something away in the end of distance, some reality that she did not know, or even suspect. What was it that they saw? Probably they saw nothing after all, nothing at all. But then that was the trick, wasn’t it? To see nothing at all, nothing in the absolute. To see beyond the landscape, beyond every shape and shadow and color, that was to see nothing. That was to be free and finished, complete, spiritual. To see nothing slowly and by degrees, at last; to see first the pure, bright colors of near things, then all pollutions of color, all things blended and vague and dim in the distance, to see finally beyond the clouds and the pale wash of the sky — the none and nothing beyond that. To say “beyond the mountain,” and to mean it, to mean, simply, beyond everything for which the mountain stands, of which it signifies the being. Somewhere, if only she could see it, there was neither nothing nor anything. And there, just there, that was the last reality. Even so, in the same attitude of non-being, Abel had cut the wood. She had not seen into his eyes until it was too late, until they had returned upon everything.