by William Jackson on 1998-07-17
I sit by the dimming firelight
and watch the flames dance
over the white-hot ashes,
and hear the soft crack
of the burning wood.
Who sat here many years before?
Was this the Great Circle where the Natives would dance?
I see the never-ending movement of the arms and feet,
Dancers adorned with rainbows,
hopping from one foot to the other.
I hear the relentless beating of the drum,
the heart of the Dance,
and the chants and cries of all who watch.
I feel the ground tremble from the Dancers,
and the drums,
and people cheering them on,
and as the Dance continues
its sole purpose identifies itself
as the Rain begins to drop from the heavens to the waiting Earth.
The Dancersʼ outstretched arms meet the Rain. They stop,
their purpose fulfilled.
All cheer and run to shelter.
I sit by the dimming firelight,
as the sparks take flight,
as if to run from the heaven-sent blessing of Rain,
and I see that I am here and they are there,
yet they live on
in the Rain.