Bushes and briar,
thunder and fire.
In the ceremony
that is night,
the concrete forest
can be anywhere,
anywhen.
In the wail of a siren
rising up from the distance,
I hear a heartbeat,
a drumbeat, a dancebeat.
I hear my own
heart
fire
beat.
I hear chanting.
Eagle feather, crow’s caw
Coyote song, cat’s paw
Ya-ha-hey, hip hop rapping
Fiddle jig, drumbeat tapping
Once a
Once a
Once upon a time
I smell the sweet smoke
of smudge sticks,
of tobacco,
of sweetgrass on the corner
where cultures collide
and wisdoms meet.
And in that moment of grace,
where tales branch,
bud to leaf,
where moonlight
mingles with streetlight,
I see old spirits in new skins,
bearing beadwork,
carrying spare change and charms,
walking dreams,
walking large.
They whisper.
They whisper to each other
with the sound of talking drums,
finger pads brushing taut hides.
They whisper,
their voices carrying,
deliberately,
like distant thunder,
approaching.
Bushes and briar . . .
—Wendelessen