Far below, a speck of grey broke the lake’s glassy surface. Branden dove, air screaming around him. Green dots became trees, the sharp outline of rocks grew clear in the shallows, and drops of foam glistened with each lapping wave. Down, down, a sudden grab, blinding spray, and yes! He soared, triumphant, bearing the wiggling fish in his grasp.

Flight was joy.

The forest stretched below him, encircling the lake, at once endless and finely detailed. Each leaf and needle seemed painfully sharp to his eyes. Adjusting with every shift of the wind, Branden glided to the little scoop in the cliff that housed his nest. A heap of sticks lined with bark and leaves provided all the shelter he needed.

His cry echoed on the cliff face as he dropped the fish into the nest, immediately diving and tearing into his prey. Every action came instinctually: clear and immediate. Neither whirling thought nor numbed repetition marred the flow of experience. Often cold bit and hunger gnawed, but for him they existed only in the moment. Past and future meant nothing. Whether forlorn or joyful, exhausted or energetic, snug or freezing; he was present.

Finishing the fish, he rested. Time meant nothing. When he felt ready, he took to the air again, gliding in the evening breeze. Golden sunlight bathed earth and sky. The world stretched out infinitely around him, seemingly within easy reach of his wings. Countless leaves on a tree, trees in a forest, forests in the world; each beautiful and complete within itself yet part of a grander whole. Here a deer darted, there a bear lumbered, yonder a rabbit scurried...

Food! He weaved through the canopy, swooping upon the hapless white creature. Seeking the refuge of its hole, it fled, but not swiftly enough. Branden seized it in his talons with a cry. Flush with victory, he soared again, bearing his trembling prize.

A shadow passed over him.

Panic seized Branden. Banking sharply, he zoomed towards the cover of the trees. The pursuing shadow loomed larger and darker, blotting out the sun. He felt its wings beating great gusts of air. Massive talons bore down to snatch him.

With a soft cry, the eagle pulled up, narrowly avoiding stiff branches. More maneuverable, Branden wove among the forest, desperately keeping to the densest places. The eagle, terrifyingly large and fast, circled overhead, awaiting the right moment. Fighting was hopeless; escape impossible.

The moment came. As Branden crossed a gap between groves, the eagle dove. Shrieking, Branden dropped the rabbit. Death leapt upon him...

And passed just before his eyes, seizing his rabbit. Without another glance at Branden, the eagle flew away as quickly as it came.

For a moment Branden hurtled towards the ground. Instinct took over, and he beat his wings. He flew in no particular direction, yet somehow he felt confident in his course.

Far below, he spied a familiar green-furred creature striding through the trees. The Olonto seemed not to disturb leaf or bough despite his mass. Giving an angry cry, Branden descended, flapping around the Olonto’s head. The creature, seeming not to heed Branden, entered an open space, the same clearing that Branden had met him on.

As the light failed, the Olonto’s fur faded to grey. “You have returned. I have not called,” he said.

Branden cried in answer.

“You are upset. Are you angry, afraid, or confused? Even Olonto cannot always tell,” he said with a smile. “Or you miss the power of speech?”

Perching atop the Olonto’s shoulder, Branden released his piercing cry directly into a large ear, over and over.

Nodding, the Olonto sighed. “Very well. You are no louder as a human. Land upon your forehead.”

The sight of his own body, a healthy pink yet motionless as a corpse, disturbed Branden. Nevertheless he obeyed, gently landing on his own forehead, taking care not to scratch it with his talons. Once more he cried.

“Patience. Have you not learned any as a hawk?” The Olonto approached, kneeling beside Branden. “Perhaps I shall house your spirit in a sloth - slower and quieter.”

By now Branden’s throat ached as birds in the distance matched his cries.

The Olonto shook his head, resting his paw on Branden’s wing as well as his body’s chest. “As you wish.” His voice deepened, becoming more solemn, almost reverential. “Noble hawk, we thank you for your great gift. Reclaim now what is yours, and savor the free sky once more.”

Stretching his body to the dirt, forehead on the ground, the Olonto chanted softly. The earth vibrated as if in answer, and indeed the Olonto’s voice seemed to echo through the ground:

Water flowing cold and pure

Fire burning hot and bright

beneath all Earth stands sure

stars grace Sky in the night

growing, blooming, flowering, giving

nut and apple; herb and berry

every creature fed by Plant

running, flying, crawling, living

fur and hide; meat and dairy

clothed and full by Animal’s grant

speaking, building, loving, learning

the Great Peoples doomed to warring

by the Seven Wonders blessed

their protection Olonto’s quest

for the Seven I thank the Ten

and guard their gifts against the hour

they walk amongst us once again

and in peace the Seven flower

Utter dark descended on Branden, as he felt himself grow heavy. His expanding body sagged as wings shrank and disappeared. Falling, he helplessly hurtled towards the ground.

As he struck the earth he woke, blinking his eyes open to find his own body.

“You may sit up. Do not move your legs or use your left arm. You are still healing,” the Olonto said, peering down at him.

Gingerly Branden propped himself on his right elbow, gazing at the Olonto with wide eyes.

The Olonto eventually spoke first. “You had much more to say as a hawk. Is returning to your body stranger than leaving it was?”

Still staring, Branden said nothing.

“Do you wonder about my fur? Or perhaps you had an experience as a hawk that you did not expect.”

“Your... your poem,” Branden said. “I felt... it was...”

Kneeling down again, the Olonto came close but only stared.

“Well, I mean, I didn’t understand all of it. At first I thought it was a spell, like some of the Curuani use, but you didn’t mention body-swapping at all! But it still felt... seemed... powerful, somehow.”

Still the Olonto gaped.

Branden shifted on his right arm. “What is so strange about that? You think humans don’t make poems? And why didn’t you need a chant, or a spell, or whatever, when you put me in the hawk’s body?”

“The rituals were the same. The Olonto do not make poems.”