Up at Chaw’se, dusk on the first day of April. The mother lode quartz of the Sierra foothills, pulsing underfoot. The turkeys flock, dance and court. The deer parade, stroll and linger. The puffed robin families happily flit under the Valley Oak groves, here having attained their majestic, ancient potential. The Miwok men have gathered tonight to sing and to drum and further down the trail, I find myself a honking goose and a lurking coyote.