Moon music moved them together
across nights of bat-darkness
earth drummed by naked feet
that beats Nevada mountains,
high hills of Mohawk country.
Though old Medicine Men,
prodded by priest and politician,
no longer wear robes;
nor boys, geld and tender,
gather holy corn
nor are celebrated on the warpath
and taken in love by strong warriors…
they remain in lodges and languages
where the vision is honored,
and grandfathers know Nations will gather.
Moon music moved them together;
breechclouts left at the door,
straight firs… ponderosa to cedar…
naked, crossed in the star-burst of dawn:
bent, spent, broken in deep valleys.
The first frenzied dance finished.
Wovoka shook hands with Cornplanter.
Earth parts for the seed of their firs.