Cathedral-like, the tall pines stand
Like sentinels, guarding those within the circle.
The smell of pine wafts by my nose
As the breeze blows through the trees.
The dirt road goes around the perimeter
Allowing all to enter and make camp.
A circle within a circle,
The powwow ground becomes sacred
As sage and cedar smoke fills the air.
If you listen with your heart,
You can hear the drums and singing
From powwows past.
This is the land of my ancestors.
We dance in nature’s arena.
The songs become our prayers for all.
The drums are the heartbeat of the earth.
Our songs and dances are for her.
We are one with this land.