It is not difficult to make. Sit by the fire. Tonight we sing the old songs, remembering. The flute is like the wind, The drums like distant thunder, Like buffalo on the prairie. A blanket woven from eons of existence.
Smoke rises from the campfire into the sky.
This gathering is good, Seeing old friends from distant homes, Dancing to the chant and the drum. But the ride here was long and I am tired. Is like the voices of the People singing as one. The end of the chant sounds. I open my eyes and rise.