White clouds swirling

In a pool

Of blue sky above,

Growing larger,

Stronger

During the day.

Turning dark and mean

In the afternoon.

They are the children

Of the fierce Thunder Clouds,

Blood brothers

To the Western Winds,

Blood brothers to the Lightening Bolts,

Whose arrows fly

Earthward

In ramous flashes

Leaving long scars

On the faces of the proud

And pensive pines.

Warrior sons

Of the native nations

Bravely gathering

With their tribes,

Listening to wisdom

Of the elders

With painted cheeks,

Dancing the ancient dances

To the beat

Of throbbing drums,

Pounding drums,

Shaman’s rattle,

Distant roar

Of rancor rumbling,

Drawling bellow

In blacken sky

Horse hooves,

Thudding thunder,

Young braves,

Shrieking cries of war

Carried in howling Western Winds

Shouting,

As they plunge into battle,

“Today is a good day to die.”

On thickets

Of thirsty thistle,

Cerium droplets fall

Leaving tiny footprints

On tear stained trails.

In mist,

Their ghost like spirits

Wander through the forest

Near and far

Roam

In pale moon light,

And rise

To meet the morning star.

White clouds swirling

In a pool of blue sky above.

Growing larger,

Stronger

During the day,

Turning dark and mean

In the afternoon.

They are the children

Of the fierce Thunder Clouds