Gros ventres [ Grosventres | Hiratsa | Minitaree | Minataree | Minataree | Hidatsa | Minitari ]

Hidatsa [ Minitaree ]

black-bellied seedcracker

herring gut

wholesale trade [ wholesale dealing | wholesale market ]

Maternal care for:cystocele | pelvic floor repair (previous) | pendulous abdomen | rectocele | rigid pelvic floor

wholesale selling

The Blood Tribe has at various times traded with such First Nations as the Gros Ventre, the Assiniboine, the Cree, the Kootenay and the Crow.

Toronto is the biggest airport with tons of cargo, simply because the belly space of the big aircraft has a lot of cargo.

The indictment at that time, though, was that the industry had been catering to the majors like the Coca-Colas and all the other major vending players and had not adequately represented the interests of the small business, the owner-operated type of arrangement.

I live in the heart of a lost country yet one I've never left I was born here I'll die here a country that is no more but follows me everywhere I'd like to get out which I couldn't do they'd like to drive me out which they couldn't do sometimes it's so small that despite its great river and its lakes it's no bigger than a teardrop and sometimes so huge it goes on forever I took possession of it at birth proud discoverer out of my mother's womb like a caravel come from far beyond La Rochelle a country like the one I built in my childhood on Lake Saint Pierre among the cattails and reeds I put down my roots in the soil of legends so that the tree of my life draws the sap of poetry there a country of summers where fire my friend comes down fro ...[+++]m the zenith to swim with me a country of autumns where my inner forests sang flames of all colors a northern country with frosty eyes ice storm suns burning on snow a country where big flakes of snow geese melted into the pure air of spring in my country we're so crazy for beauty that meadow flowers turn into swallows and fly off on feathers of blue fragrance so crazy with music the icicles on the eves sound like a glass keyboard under little mallets of cold so crazy with magic that we see trees in January turn into great snowy owls under their down of frost so crazy for love that we stroke the skin of days and every river is a naked woman smiling on a bed of light no one dies in my country at every family gathering some of my most distant ancestors even those from 1663 from St-François du Havre de Grâce turn up with their instruments and start dancing if it happens one day I lose my lost country I'll become like the haggard homeless man who on winter nights at the end of a blind alley among trash and garbage cans makes his only home a dirty cardboard box