An old warrior watches an early snow dust the land where his children once played, where young men hunted and a woman's gentle laughter danced in the fire with the soup. He remembers many bullets and has taken many lives in his living years. But he is old now. He remembers the spirit helpers that gave his life and anger such purpose and power. He acknowledges them and tucks a bit of the land into the folds of his blanket. *Artists notation: zooming up to the crook of Geronimo's folded arm, you can see tucked safely away in the folds of his blanket, are the memories of the places he's loved the most.