Native Season

Time is in the trees,
the old ones say,
and in the woolly caterpillar,
before he crawls away.

Many campfires burn,
by the waters edge.
Smoke rises in the morning,
signaling our harvest village.

Deer and elk are plentiful,
and we thank the spirits' grace.
Fish swim in the river,
all creatures of our race.

To harvest all we can,
before the coming wind.
Blows through our homes and blankets,
like the knife cuts through fair  skin.

The braves are in the forest,
hunting meat to dry.
The women are in meadows,
gathering seeds to ply.

The sun shines bright this season,
while the old ones talk of days gone by.
To all things there is reason,
new life springs from those who die.

The children play in the sun,
the leaves turn red and gold.
A thousand stars in the sky,
the moon this day foretold.

A time to prepare in peace and grace,
all creatures know their time and place.
May the spirits guide as in our ways,
before winter takes our days.

Buffalo hunter in autumn

Painting by Prindiville Courtesy Stonee's WebLodge


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Copyright 2005 © Ronald W. Hull


Native village in autumn by Frank Miller

Painting by Frank Miller