I’m just back from the Fort Hall Reservation powwow.
Powwows always make me cry.
I can’t help but feel like I’m watching caged things learn to fly again.
They stomp around out there in a glorious swirl of color, texture and flash
and I feel the mustang of my heart rear up and the bison of my soul snort…
They dance like the wind.
I sat on damp grass between drum crews.
I felt the thud, deep in my marrow…over and over again…pushing blood through my body with the power of a freight train.
When the singing started, I think I sprouted wings.
I had to cover my ears or go deaf for the glory of it all.
There were dancers from Saskatchewan,
a drummer beside me from Alberta.
There was a joke about Regina.
I felt like my home was rooted all around me.
I felt ashamed for my blond hair, I wished it raven black.
I wanted to wear something beaded and bold.
My cowboy boots were especially turquoise under the night lights.
A moth tangled itself in my hair.
Sun rise.
Moon shine.
Human flight.
Powwow.
