The campfire sparks were resting now.

The old man leaned back as the fire burned down to glowing coals.

The children stared up at the wide prairie sky.

"Is it true?" the youngest whispered.

The old man smiled.

"Well," he said, looking up at the drifting clouds, "that depends on how carefully you watch the weather."

The wind moved softly through the prairie grass.

For a moment, it circled the little campfire, stirring the flames just enough to send a ribbon of sparks rising into the dark.

High above the valley, the clouds shifted slowly.

The old man tilted his head slightly, listening.

The wind whispered across the hills.

He smiled again.

"Did you hear that?" he asked quietly.

"Hear what?" the children asked.

The old man looked toward the stars.

"The wind," he said. "It still remembers."

The children listened.

But they heard only the quiet prairie breeze moving through the grass.

And somewhere high above the dark valley…

Two great wings turned slowly through the clouds.

Guiding the night wind. As the First Wind.