A little rain has blanketed the earth
When are we most ourselves on this journey?
The rain doesn’t ask, nor do the earth, plants and stones who drink in rain.
Politics dominates the kitchen: who’s fired; who’s hot and not, and how
The price of gas is a perk given to the flunkies of the emperor of ruin.
And where did these bananas come from?
Who picked them and did anyone sing to those young banana trees
Pushing urgently from the creative earth?
Swallows fly out from their adobe nest as we’ve flown up from sleep
For coffee and the news—our dreams shooting roots into the earth.
Memory has its own breath, watches over us with the vision made for eagles.
The train runs through the pueblo making rough music but doesn’t stop.
We joke: it’s laden with uranium, cattle and oil.
It’s going somewhere else.
We get the politics, just how are we going to dance past this pain?
We just needed a little rain.
As I walk concrete to the tribal summit
The datura flowers are closing; someone has to stand guard with the night.
Even mystery needs to be held tenderly.
A Dineh brother stumbles up from the dark with his hands open, for rain:
Hey aren’t you the musician? He asks me for money, for a drink.
When are we most ourselves on this journey?
C Joy Harjo September 2005 Albuquerque
Remember, this is a DRAFT ONLY.
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