It's the sound they make that announces she's in the room.
She uses her hands to punctuate her words as she speaks and the bracelets dance around on her wrists. I listen as she talks and the bracelets tinkle. I close my eyes and remember my childhood and the sound of the wind chimes hanging from my grandmothers back porch.
The days were the longest they would be all year and it seemed like the sun was never going to set so they could get that last shot, the one of the sunset on the valley below were they were standing.
They were in Montana.
Flanked by armed federal agents they had been granted permission to remain in the park long after it's six o'clock closing time in order to film the view from the monument down into the valley as the sun was setting which at this time of year was around 9:50PM.
It had taken a lot of talking to convince them but in the end they had relented.
She turned the camera on record.
The sunset was orange, almost red reminding her of the blood that was spilled here.
Standing on that hill watching the sun sink deeper on the horizon she could almost feel their pain and sadness.
The sadness of a culture being persecuted just for being...