When the Bear Walks the Sky
At dusk, the ancestors rise
not from the ground,
but from the breath of clouds.
The bear is their remembering—
vast, patient, made of fire and night—
watching over a single lodge,
a rider moving slowly through prayer.
The water learns their names
and holds them without sound.
The trees bow
because they still recognize the footsteps.
This is how the old ones return:
not as ghosts,
but as guardians woven into the world—
asking us to live
as if every step is seen,
And every silence is sacred.
Artist and the storyteller: Elvis Becker
When the Bear Walks the Sky
At dusk, the ancestors rise
not from the ground,
but from the breath of clouds.
The bear is their remembering—
vast, patient, made of fire and night—
watching over a single lodge,
a rider moving slowly through prayer.
The water learns their names
and holds them without sound.
The trees bow
because they still recognize the footsteps.
This is how the old ones return:
not as ghosts,
but as guardians woven into the world—
asking us to live
as if every step is seen,
And every silence is sacred.
🎨Artist and the storyteller: Elvis Becker
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