Sheila Williams ~ Singing Cloud
Bloody sunrise, monsoon is coming, all the stories of the old ones tell, time to prepare – life-giving rains are coming.
Life and death comes pouring forth from the skies and down the mountains, old ones tell the signs to watch for.
Small kin burrow in the sand, rabbits scurry for their holes, coyotes calling to each other to the foothills they are heading.
Fire of excitement begins to flame, something ancient calls my name, heart begins a faster beat, my spirit lifts to meet the winds.
Thunder crashes in the distance, across the mountaintops the lightning walks, dust devils dance across the sands.
The Four Winds begin to fight, the storm is rising, coming closer, stinging sands scour the land, skin burning from the bite.
Eyes burn from staring into the south and north, watching as the two winds clash, and battle stars between sky and land.
For those who listen ancestors’ stories tell it has been so since time began, Thunderbird screams across the skies rising from ashes into new life.
Singing soul runs to join, lightning stalks the land, no fear but rather fierce joy fills my heart and mind, into the storm I ran.
Grandfather holds grandmother, leave the child alone she must learn what Creator teaches, I race coyote to the hills, wild laughter and long hair streaming behind.
Old one waits in her place knowing not even monsoon will delay what I seek to learn, though she laughs, she says child you are a little crazy.
Small cave, fire lit, the world exploding all around me, ceremony old as time, suddenly the sky splits apart so loud my ears are ringing, my eyes are blinded.
Together we sing, we dance, we drum, joining in with Mother Earth, sharing in her temper tantrum, letting go losing touch, walk the winds become her.
This is my time, my place, my spirit soars: I shake the rattle made just for me, brother Rattler’s tail inside; makes the sound and calls the spirits.
They are here, the ancient grandmothers join our song, our laughter, share the tears of unspeakable sadness for all that is lost left behind us.
Feeling blessed beyond the telling, hearing now their stories forever secret, lost to their own kind, a sadness deep as death, their own young are not here.
Cherokee child out of place beneath the burning desert sun, what Creator is my lesson, stories held in my mind, I cannot tell them they are not mine.
What was the reason, what purpose switched around from our homelands, what child hears the spirits speaking on sacred grounds of the Tsalagi?
©Copyright October 9, 2007 by Sheila Williams ~ Singing Cloud