Ode To Dawn Flower of Cahokia

The air hung swimming with dust motes, throbbing with heat, wringing the sweat form our pores. We walked forward through the soup of ages over trampled grass marked by the passage of buck and doe. The mounds rose above us massive, looming, spirit hands brush our cheeks and pull my hair. The Shaman shushes and shooes. Enfolded in his arms with prayerful hearts; following the parted, knee high grass; moving tentatively upward. Twin hawks fly overhead, spiraling in the tepid updraft. An oval depression appears at the crest of the burial mound. The Kings Mound. Dragon flies buzz through the static charged ether. “Naked, naked, do not profane”. “Naked, naked," the hungry, curious, spirits chant. “So long have we waited for a vessel of knowing. So, long, so, long.” She lay where the doe had lain. He sat as the buck sat vigil. The Shaman’s eyes scanned the horizon. The hawks continued their scout. The sound of the Shaman's flute pierces the atmosphere. Her pulse races to the cries of Kings. “So, long, so long.” Muffled moans melted with the whir of cicada. With the final throbbing note of the flute the distant memory of drums; homage is paid. She arose the bride of Kings; blessed by the ancestors Dawn Flower.