I point the door of my tent to the east. It’s a tribal custom. Your days improve when you begin them by walking toward the sun. In the morning, I unzip the canvas door. I’m not alone. A prairie dog sits between my camp and the horizon. He is not eating. He’s not digging or building. He rests on his haunches, observing no creeds. No traditions. He does not subscribe to a set of beliefs. He faces east. The two of us. On the prairie. Watching the sun come up. Expressing devotion to the religion of beauty.
~ By Chad Hanson from Wild Quarterly