Flies Buzzing

As a child, I danced.

to the heartful, savage

rhythm

of the Native, the

American Indian,

in the Turtle Mountains,

in the Round Hall,

in the greasy light of

kerosene lamps.

As a child, I danced.

among the long, jangle legs of

the men, down

beside the whispering moccasin women ,

in close circles

around the old ones,

who sat at the drum,

Their heads tossed, their backs arched.

     in ancient prayer.

As a child, I danced away from the fist.

I danced toward the rhythms of life.

I danced into dreams, into

the sound of flies buzzing.

A deer advancing but clinging to the forest wall,

the old red woman rocking in her tattered shawl,

The young woman bent her breasts

drooping to the mouths of their young, the heat

hanging heavy on the tips of our tongues,

until the sun

burned the sky black, and the moon

made us silvery blue and

all of the night sounds, all of the night sounds

folded together with the buzzing

still in our heads,

becoming a chant of ghosts,

of Crazy Horse and Wovoka

and all the endless others,

snaking through the weaving through the trees

like beams of ribbons of light,

singing, We shall live again, We shall live,

until the sun and the sun and the sun and I

awaken,

still a child, still dancing

toward the rhythm of life.