Copper Ghosts I hear the voices in the wind, the voices of the dark-eyed people who are strangers, who walked the land long before any of my folk travelled to these parts. Sometimes, I see their shades, and it seems to me that they are looking for something that they love, that they can no longer find. When I hear them call in the cry of eagles, in the rustling of a pine tree, in the song of Salmon Rivers, I wonder just who are the strangers and who the welcome family of this wild, lovely land.