Driving northwest from Iowa, we crossed the stateline and pulled over. Grass rolled before us to the horizon, long hills at dusk.

My brother spread his arms in the wind. “I could run forever,” he said.

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We were guests of a small Baptist church of the Sisseton Wahpeton Nation in northeast South Dakota. They were weeks of kindness and listening.

Driving, descending between two hills, a golden eagle shot out of a stand of trees, over our van, was gone.

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On the altar of the Catholic Church, lain across the open Gospel, an eagle wing fan.

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Grass and wind.