Song of the Forest

Over the bubbling brook,
Through the swishing trees,
Along a still-watered lake,
Among a native tribe.

Side by side in circle,
Around a raging fire,
Arrayed with feathers and beads,
Cross-legged men, women, and children.

Beating on beaver skin drums,
Blowing into carved flutes,
Rattling dried bean maracas,
Intoning with mellifluous language.

“Listen,” uttered Chief Ogimaa-Nagamon,
Closing my quivering eyelids,
Beyond the music,
Inside the forest.

Heavy paws pounding on forest ground,
Reeds whispering in the soft wind,
Water rushing over smooth rocks,
The chattering of all forest animals.

“Come,” called Chief Ogimaa-Nagamon,
Within the native tribe I sit,
Forever enclosed in
The Song of the Forest.