This land is where our drummers dance.

Hardwood, softwood trees, the wide moon's crown.

      The sand in stars in my leg hairs,

a trace from the beach just past these dunes, raises the ocean's drying spice to my prayers cupped in fingers curled to mimic the circle and depth of moon.

       This is our zero point.

Seaweed

       smells of herbs on closing wounds.

Barefoot

       we dance our medicines back

into earth, fold between the fire and night the power to make bodies whole.

The silver man who feeds the fire

tangled colors hanging from his hair

and his beauty, in her featheress, his

beauty

      blesses guests with gestures sleek

as easy boats. Our drummers dance to show our colors to earn the earth's respect,

and here our dancers make the dirt a muffled drum, the ground

     a nest of sparks sprung

reluctant from the dust around our dirty feet,

     fusing sand into glassy sheen

with currents circuited between our belly flames and pulses long native to this land.