The tribe has pitched their tipis here
Where grass is thick and water near,
And high above, the red-tails veer and circle down to mate.
The lodgepoles angle up so high,
They hug the ground, they kiss the sky,
And from their tips the streamers fly like birds across a field.
The tipi covers, neatly made
And winter-weathered, glow and fade
As sunrise light and sunset shade give shape to every trait.
In sudden wind the lodgepoles hum—
Right here both past and vision come
To welcome travellers to the drum till every one is healed.