Hello, Mourning Star, I walked where the four trees were, I drove by the horrible sights along highway 55 and saw the destruction of the land, the trees, and Minnehaha Creek. I grieve for them all, the creek, the trees that are gone, (oh, the beautiful cottonwood), the incredible sameness of the destruction. This is "development." But of what? I did not see the four trees fall. Only when they were gone, including the stumps, did I go to visit. And I keened in my soul for them. The trees left standing were glad to see us there. For them that meant hope. They still stood tall. I walk by the two trees and see the route the road might take. Here is devastation. Here is also power, the power of all the spirits that have inhabited that land. I see and hear the native people dancing and singing, buckskin legs moving to the music, connecting with the earth in the ancient dance. This is their land from ancient times. I see the sacred grove. I feel the power and presence of the earth's strength pull through me. "We are the walking trees, we are the spirit of the earth, we are alive and walking, and where we walk is beautiful." I cry for the trees, the earth. But I draw strength from the land to go forward and continue the struggle. I hear the song of the earth, the winds swirl around me, the dampness penetrates my body, but with the strength of the earth I am warm and ready to move ever forward to save her. I wear the moccasins. My legs become as tree trunks, my body a tree strong and tall and full and alive. Mourning Star, at the first dawn they came to take my brothers and sisters. I did not stand idle, but knelt beside them, and they took me, too. Then they took them away. But they are with me always in my memory, the green of their beautiful leaves shining in the summer morning sun, a gentle breeze running though them; their rough bark on my hand as I touched them in love and for strength. Mourning Star, thank you. By going through grief I come to greater strength, determination, and love. I see the power of the land that cannot be destroyed by man. I see the spring, the giver of life water, flow as it has for thousands of years--long before the white man, my ancestors, came to this continent. The grace of the weeping willow on the banks of the pond and the ancient tree that stands near the spring, beauty without rival, the trees, the spring. The spirit of the earth lives here, in the spring, in the trees, in this land. Water is joy. My mourning becomes song. My work is to move others to save the land, to save the spring. Thank you, Mourning Star.