Song of Kangila Cloudcrow
Tears of the Earthmother dropped from blackened skies
As She heard the fatal swell roar through dry canyons.
A thousand stoic needles cracked and toppled in terror and agony.
No more do they gently raise their capping boulders as offerings to the Earthmother.
Plants that held the secret of life on waterless soils
And animals that once guarded those mysteries
Now join one another in a different land.
When you fall into twilight sleep, can you not hear them sorrowfully howl for us?
The tall wave broke millennia of tradition, sacred wisdom, and story.
Voices of our ancestors no longer whisper among the whistling winds,
And the air is lonely without their breath to nurture it.
Where are the quiet Cloudcrows, with their poems and soft spirits?
Where are the mighty warriors of the Ironhorns?
Where are the strong songs of the Drumhoofs?
Youthful are our lone survivors, now thrust into eldership.
The tidal wave was our rite of passage, our rite of ascension to chiefdom.
Where can we learn our ways?
We are without a word, so heavy is this silence that now becomes our new story.
We must find new songs, opening like desert blossoms after thunderous rainfall.
We of the Cloudcrow tribe stood atop our butte
Surrounded below by deep waters, whirlpools, and water spouts.
All our warriors and elders below during the flood were taken away.
The eternal hunt was over.
The few of us gathered and agreed to move from our sacred ground.
Never again to feel beneath our hooves the earthen floor of our history,
We uprooted the totem poles that had stood for centuries
And fashioned a raft from these logs of dying legends and the leather straps made of extinct animal hides.
We rode the waves on the backs of our ancestor totem animals
Setting out among the watery hazards towards the unknown.
Unaware of our courage, unsure of our path, we shivered in fear, sleepless, for one moon.
Danger and upheaval confronted us at every watery stroke and hoofstep
Through lakes, deserts, ocean, dense swamps, and barrens
Dodging siege, warfare, and frenzied animals, we wandered carefully
Into the warm welcoming prairies of Mulgore.
Let me sing my song, the song of a surviving Cloudcrow,
And my name is Kangila, “Blackbird.”
In the tradition of my deceased mother, Anshishe’mah, I must choose her path.
The path of the poet druid. The path of a tribal leader.
Hear my song today, that it may fertilize your heart and gladden my own.