Ancestral Wind

A sigh arising from the west,
pervades the mountain firs.
A haunting voice in ancient tongue
speaks whispers on the wind.

The rhythmic rise and fall of tone
compel me with a tale.
Of blood and breed that flow and link
a son with Fathers passed.

A pinto pony proudly strides
across the open plain.
Upon his back a naked buck
in search of prairie’s prey.

In reverence to nature’s way
we honor what we kill
and sing a prayer of kinship to
the brother we have slain.

Mothers shall be fed this night
to still the hunger song.
Little ones will play to learn
and know the hunter’s way.

Though the generations pass
we bridge the veil of years.
So sons of sons of sons may heed
this west ancestral wind.

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