Ike Moseseek drove down the Mount Rushing Highway to City Hall. The aspens, larch, and maples were turning color here in mid-September. He listened to some Navajo singers on CD. He kept cadence with the drumming, his thumbs dancing on the steering wheel.

He considered time, the passing of seasons, here now, driving down the paved road in an automobile, too fast to hear songbirds, too fast to hear the river on the rocks. He consciously slowed to 40, checking his mirrors, should some log truck come barreling up.