Turquoise Place In Time

The blood is calling—
Beckoning me to go away with the People,
Back to the time of Comastocki,
When her white husband moved with the railroad.
Horses of fire, and the path of the Way.

The crow flies to the horizon at daybreak—
His silhouette is cast on the land,
Keeping the desire at bay, to live with the Earth Mother.
A deep part of you today, feels the Spirit, and Truth,
The only codes you have to last a lifetime.

Honest work, living for art;
The People are the purest form of dexterity,
Gracing the earth.
There grows the hope for expression………

The singing; discord mixed with beads,
Soft buckskin, with bead rows rich in beauty—
Swaying to smooth native beats,
Freedom is released by these sweet people—
A rich, tragic history of love, respect—honor.

The sky of blue blisters,
Cough; the weather like a common cold.
Elk are seen on the land to bellow,
For the camp to hear—
A symphony of nature throughout time.

Evening camps lift smoke into the mist,
The breath of the horses pours out,
And the beauty of the stars map the sky.

Lodges smoke slowly,
Night slips in with peace.
The People bound by commitment to their art
Now lost, but never dead—

There remains the People of Weather………………