Trail Of Intuition

The day your hands decided to pound the drums, ancestors made sure everyone was listening.
Their language echoing through mighty oaks, confusing English thoughts.
Wrap her in the beautiful Buffalo hide, she's tired and full of broken.
What, Sitting Bull, did you study the stars while in heaven and use them as stepping stones to cross the plains of time?
Lay her in the Tipi that sits by the waters edge, where the warm wind can blow her bad memories away, cradling the little girl inside, like a child laying in her mothers arms.
As the frog sings a new hope for Spring and the owl hoots at the snow white moon, a time when there was no white man to lace her blanket with agenda, and there, let her sleep in comfort by her tribe.