I was transfixed as I watched and Iistened to the serene old man sitting cross-legged in the wild grass of the sun-drenched prairie. He was dressed in his familiar black cowboy hat, faded yellow and purple striped shirt, and jeans. Off to our left, the wind stirred the leaves of the cottonwood trees. He paid no attention to our surroundings as he sang softly in a melodious and surprisingly strong voice, his eyes closed, his face etched like the craggy South Dakota badlands but not thickened with anxiety, and his arms and hands extended to the side with palms upturned in supplication. He nodded continually, and glints of sunlight caught on his copper-colored forehead, high cheekbones, and the classic arch of his nose.

He seemed to have forgotten that I was there, and that was understandable, for what was going on was a personal and encompassing thing 'between his Creator, Wakan Tanka, and himself. He had not lighted the small branches stacked in front of him, yet as he chanted his song for the fourth time, they burst into flames. The wood crackled, and as its musky odor reached me, his eyes opened. He stared blankly at the fire for a moment, then passed his right hand over the flames. The smoke turned yellow. He did it again, and the smoke turned black. A third motion caused it to turn white, and a fourth, red.

I knew these were the sacred colors of the four cardinal directions from which powers and wisdom come to the Lakota. But how and why did he do this? I had watched intently, and he had put nothing in the fire to change its color. In a moment, I ceased wondering about that, because wild birds and animals - creatures who both feared and preyed upon one another - began to arrive: a fox, a family of raccoons, squirrels, groundhogs, a badger, four crows, two hawks, sparrows, meadowlarks ... each one sitting down or standing near him and utterly unafraid of the fire or the other creatures while they waited for him to finish.

Now the different-colored smoke materialized in the air above his head, and suddenly Fools Crow was arrayed in an ancient, blue-painted, Lakota war shirt, with hair locks and fringes. His hands dripped blue paint, and his face was thickly coated with the color. He began to sing again, and four plumes of colored smoke entered the top of his head then emerged from the midsection of his body. Feathers of the black eagle appeared inside the swirling smoke and spun slowly around. Cottonwood leaves, whose pattern had given the Indians of the plains the idea for their tipis, also appeared in the smoke. Fools Crow reached out and caught several of the feathers. The smoke eddied away. Fools Crow touched each creature on the head and held a brief conversation with it in his Lakota language. The creatures left, the fire died down and his war shirt and paint vanished. He was wearing his faded striped shirt and cowboy hat again.

He glanced over at me, knowing I would be amazed. "They bring me messages from Wakan Tanka and the directions," he said matter of factly, "messages about things my people need to know to prepare for the future". I shook my head back and forth ... but not in disbelief for I had already seen this aged man do incredible things.He was a worker of miracles or, better said, a rare channel or tube through whom Wakan Tanka worked miracles, although Fools Crow would not call them such. Later he would say that when "The Highest and Most Holy One acts, it is only the carrying out of a promise. The "miracle" would be if He failed to do what He said He would.