User Review( votes)
written by: Katy Santiff
I used to think me native when I was
just a kid, run the deer paths like they were
leading to a distant drumming heart, felt
leaves and trees beneath my feet returning
back to earth, the way their fabric flayed and
became dirt. I listened for wood-whistles
on the wind, the creek of dogwood branches
as they swayed, how one became a thousand
when the evening would begin. I answered
all the night-things as they asked of me my
mind--the reason for my rush, outward flight.
I told them that I must be made of fire,
cow licking embered soul into the night.