Indian Summer Song

       
God gives us each a song.        
~ Proverb        
       
A million-decimal birdsong        
Sings me into Monday.        
Veins of twig, morning        
Maestros stirring beneath      
the translucent skin of fog      
Conducted from dormancy        
by an Indian summer creed.      
Small creatures, gorged  
Cheeks, scratching shallow  
Soil around the base.        
       
Last night’s dream        
wraps me inside    
this cocoon of sheets,        
not quite ready to emerge  
in this dimly lit room.      
       
We are not just living        
our days in a material      
World of displacement.      
We are freshly kneaded      
Purpose. Our ripeness        
of age rising to perfect        
consistency via agreements        
specifically designed        
to lead us home.      
Oh how we’ll sing, review      
what we’ve learned      
Seek what remains      
To be known      
and go forth.      
Because we’re brave        
like that, Warriors        
unafraid of the dark    
unafraid to know
or trust the dance.      
The choreography        
of each ritual step     
Laying south-bound      
tracks through      
lifetimes of blood.          
       
A murmuration dons        
The naked shoulders        
Of a topless tree, wrapping        
their black stole east      
toward the silver-yellow        
of morning’s porch swing.      
I rise alone, content.      
Here in this place      
I'm writing the next verse        
Of my own lyrics        
Accepting with grace        
Teachers of experience      
Their fingers etching        
half-notes of my tune      
that I hear, if not see    
the way.  Great Loves    
Muses like you, who    
so long ago agreed        
to patiently orchestrate        
my homeward melody.        
       
Osda sunalei        
Wado.        
~        
       
       
Photo: Klamath Tribesman in traditional dress by Boone Speed.