She sees the moon moving high above the fields, catching light in sleeping pockets of water. The valley is winking with smooth ponds. The waterlight. All the fields are dry now. The clouds lit by the moon are water, passing. It is close to harvest. And she is dreaming beneath this moon the way her grandfather dreamed, his cap of magpie feathers pressed to sky. With power she feels the movement of things and even the still night air has weight. Louise feels the night in her throat, in her skin, water-heavy.

In the distance he is glazed in quiet light. She dreams of Baptiste Yellow Knife moving toward her but never touching. He is watching her. The night air is cold as creek water and though he is far from her, she feels his breath. He is warm. She feels the heat of his passing like his horse lathered from running. She smells him. He is the smell of all the things she loves without awareness. The smells pass her like childhood: the river smell, spring sage before lightning, juniper and jack pine, the deep smell of dirt and worms after winter, camas flower and chamomile, her grandmother’s hands.

All summer long he has tended his horses. He is brushing Champagne’s mane. He is cutting Champagne’s tail straight and knotting it to silk. She hears a low sound and realizes someone is singing. The sun is white heat. She can’t remember the moon. And she is naked, sighing in the dry grass. He is far from her. He is wearing his dancing silks. He is ready for marriage. She lifts her hand. But he rides away from her. She yells to him, waving her arms. He is leaving her. She knows now. She is running. She hears the dull slam of his thighs to the horse, the hard kicking of his heels. Dust worries at the edge of the field, lifting heat to sky. She is sweating in this heat. She squints to see. He is riding toward the rock rise of shale. He shouts to her. She can’t hear him above the swift sound of wind in the high pines. She sees only his shirt, fallen to dust. It smells like rust-blood. He is gone from me, she thinks. He is gone. And she turns back to see him ride toward the black highway. His back is broad and shines with sun. All she sees now is the white gleam off the top of his shoulders. The fields and the grass are white with sun and the miles and miles of fences.