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                     Remembering the old songs
 

               Come sit by my fire tonight As  we sing the old songs,
                                            Remembering the flute is like the wind, The drums like distant thunder,
                     Like buffalo on the prairie. Voices blend together in song,
                                                         A blanket woven from eons of existence. Smoke rises from the campfire into the sky.
                            This gathering is good, Seeing old friends from distant homes,
                                                      Dancing to the chant and the drum. But the ride here was long and I am tired.
                                               I close my eyes and listen to the breeze Whispering about the Old Ones.
                    The spring wind blows across the hill  Warming my spirit.
                                             I think back to my childhood  When we made the long trek to this place
Where the grass is green and the water cool.
                                      Father Sun now watches the corn tassel.  An eagle circles overhead.
                   It is a good sign.  My daughter and sons will return soon
                                              From their journey to trade for flaking stone, For shell and an eagle pipe.
                                            I continue working on the leather pouch  My son will wear at the dance.
                                     The white buffalo looks almost real,Like the one I saw in my youth.
                                        A cloud covers the face of Father Sun,   The shadow passing over me.
                                                   As the sky darkens, I close my eyes,  Remembering the gathering last year,
                                 Old friends returning with new stories  To pass on to our children.
                                                         The wind as it moves through the trees. Is like the voices of the People singing as one.
                                                      The end of the chant sounds. I open my eyes and rise. Tomorrow I will dance again
                                        Wearing the white buffalo pouch  Inherited from my great-grandfather,
                                                     Made by his great-grandmother.As I walk toward my tent, The night owl calls.
                         His call wakens my brothers the wolves as they begin to sing.
                               I lay my head down to rest  to dream  and wait for my dreamwolf