Going back in time,
the soft clouds rewind quickly
to those passed centuries.
The sky is glowing
and the power is sweet.
Here they come,
people moving across the land,
carrying their babes,
moving to lower ground
for the winter.
The sky is always turquoise blue,
and the junipers grow wild.
They travel passed the red cliffs
and head into the Black Ridge country
on their way to the land of the whipping sands.

Soft and vivid dream
quiet like the groves of cottonwood grandpas
swaying in the steady wind.
The wind pushes the billowing clouds
through traveling sky.
Locusts buzz.

Hear the whispers.
The passed is alive
in the dreamer’s dimension.
Listen to the faded voices of the passed.
The rocks still speak.
The sacred images tell stories.
Go to the pictures on the rocks
they have the power.
Soft spoken meadow lark sings.
Those cottonwoods are angels
translucent rain falls on their branches.
The old ones revisit the land
because they are not forgotten.
They are remembered.
Peace. Sweet intelligent peace.
In a living dream, the old ones speak.

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