Episode 32

The wind, a phantom hand, caresses stone, Whispering secrets, ancient and unknown. Of Shoshone dreams, and trails of dust and blood, Where rivers carved their path through sun and flood.

The trapper’s fire, a fragile, hopeful spark, Against the vastness of the endless dark. His keenest eye, a bead upon the prey, His French heart’s song, a prayer for brighter day.

McKenzie’s vision, etched against the sky, A fort to stand, where shadows used to lie. But whispers rise, from every rustling leaf, Of ancient spirits, holding ancient grief.