Here under Cipak, the sacred mountain of the Similkameen, the maiden wearing her wedding veil at this time of year and the eastern toe of the Cascades, lies a grassland without weeds, with unrecorded species of insects and plants, and with sagebrush trunks that have lain in place for a century without being disturbed.

The grasslands of the West were lost by 1871, yet this one remains, which means that it has had human caretakers for all this time, who have gone un-named and have asked for nothing but the grass. They are, however celebrated. I celebrate them here. Habitat loss is not a necessary thing, and there are things that people can do. Take hope.