Annie Proulx Quote

Kuntaw died on the most beautiful day in a thousand years. The October air was sweet and every faint breath a pleasure. Wind stirred and he said, Our wind reaching me here. A small cloud formed in the west. Our small cloud coming to me. The hours passed and the small cloud formed a dark wall and approached. A drop fell, another, many, and Kuntaw said, Our rain wetting my face. His people came near him, drawing him into their eyes, and he said, Now . . . what . . . The sun came out, the brilliant world sparkled, susurration, liquid flow, stems of striped grass what was it what was it the limber swish of a released branch. What, now what. Kuntaw opened his mouth, said nothing, and let the sunlight enter him.