“Where are my people?” The mountains cry out. “I’ve seen them play and live in my hands, And I’ve felt them run the trail of my back.

Before the sleepy winter came, I heard their laughter

Ring out and fill the valleys with joy.

Now there’s only the sound of silence where

Once a baby had talked in meaningless sentences.

Mr. Sun, you’ve traveled, do you know where my people are?”

A drop of golden sunshine was the answer.

“Have you seen my people?” the mountains ask the sky.

But the rains came, and that was the sky’s reply.

– Henry Tinhorn, former student at Intermountain Indian School (1970)