Drifting toward fence rows,
blue bundles hold tight
'gainst laws of free flight...
painted ponies and buffalo magic
share our sunset and moonrise,
as foothills of frozen fables,
drifting plains, glacially carved,
weave paths up ancient hills.
Centuries of seasons hide secrets
'neath their rugged palms.
Perhaps it's tears
that form such frozen pools,
reflecting the Father's grief,
whose native children
lie frozen, forgotten in time...
this is not the way of the land...
set free my drifts of native breath,
that they may cover great plains
from horizon to horizon,
owning not the possession of one,
but the gathering of all.
This grand scheme moves forward
o'er braided hill and tethered terrain.
Great tribes roam the Mother's breast,
to the beat of her single heart...
to be free, at last...home...once again.
That time again, visit the shadow blog at Hey, Harriet sign up and take pictures, though it's Sunday in Australia, we foreigners across the pond can get an early start...warning, addictive...