Cathedral-like, the tall pines stand
Like sentinels, guarding those within the circle.
The smell of pine wafts by my nose
As the breeze blows through the trees.
The dirt road goes around the perimeter
Allowing all to enter and make camp.
A circle within a circle,
The pow-wow ground becomes sacred
As sage and cedar smoke fills the air.
If you listen with your heart,
You can hear the drums and singing
From pow-wows past.
This is the land of my ancestors.
We dance in nature’s arena.
The songs become our prayers for all.
The drums are the heartbeat of the earth.
Our songs and dances are for her.
We are one with this land.
About the Creator
Hilary Miminguaquay
I live in Denver, CO and married to the most amazing woman of my dreams. I work in health care, sing with the Denver Women's Chorus and am an improvisation actor. I love books, music, needlework crafts, cooking, walks and much more.
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Disarmament
They say there's no atheism in the foxhole. While I wasn't currently neck-deep in a river of soft sediment, I was still praying to whoever would listen. Why am I doing this again? I would ponder while staring at the device that in no less than a minute could be my undoing. I scanned each and every variable panel and commonplace button as I watched the bright red L.E.D ticker countdown. No wires to cut, no code to put in, there was only one way to stop this infernal machine, and that incurred perfect timing.
By James U. Rizzi4 days ago in Fiction
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