“FOLLOW ME,” the vanishing sun whispers, and we do. Your people to the east call it , migration restlessness. We tule white-fronted geese just know that our wingtips become hungry to cut air, to follow the sun. Our feathered bodies prefer the middling temperatures, and so our home is an expansive place, reaching from lands you’ve called Dënéndeh and Alaska to Miwok and California. We see and smell our way south each fall, north each spring, touching down at Summer Lake in
