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] Date Posted:18:17:26 03/31/07 Sat
There is a place I go, at the top of a mountain,
then down through a cleft in the rocks.
To a small shelf carved into the side of the hill,
where nobody can see what it is you do here.
There are a couple of small pines and some rabbit brush,
several large and small rocks scattered about.
A place to give thanks, and offer tobacco,
to the east, to the north, the west and south as well.
A small fire pit for the cold nights,
and a little indent to shade from the sun.
On the wall are paintings, of hands, horses and buffalo.
put there eons ago by my ancestors.
To celebrate a good hunt, or the capture of horses.
maybe just to say to those who come after, I was here.
The view is something to behold, a wide vista,
looking out over the valley and into the one beyond.
The land of my parents, and theirs before them,
passed down through the ages with stories attached.
The little spring where my Grandfather surprised his enemy,
the fields where Grandmother planted corn.
Where Father and Mother raised 5 kids,
nursed us through that time of growth.
Where the lessons of life were learned,
while sitting around the fire at night.
Pastures that held hundreds of horses,
close to the village in case of attack.
Patches of scrub oak where deer were hunted,
the river that gave us fish to dry for winter.
Sage flats full of rabbits for boys to hunt,
with grasses that girls could weave,
I see all these things in my minds eye,
as if they were happening at this very moment.
My ancesters are buried there as I will be someday,
with my children following as all children must.
To spend eternity watching from a secret place,
that little shelf on top of the mountain.
And we will watch as the day grows old,
the shadows spread across the land.
