I knew a man from Yucatan; golden skinned, straight black hair and feathers. And one from even further south and east that wore great wondrous lions dancing on his dress. Bronze-skinned, rock-faced sturdy braided souls that wandered with the buffalo, and those who peeked from holes of warming fur and lived in domes of ice. It made me long for ribboned wreaths and gaudy spangled velvet vests. I wore them once, but likely never will again.
We need be careful what we lose in our great rush to be alike.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology