Listening to every heart
The old Indians have a saying, that nothing belongs to you,
it is all in the Great Spirit’s hands, we are just a chosen few.
So we are here to watch our world, and care for those beneath us
this land, this water, this hill, this acre, is sacred in our trust.
I know there is pollution, there is stinking water and trash
and graffiti fills hollowed halls where ancient spirits passed.
But there is one, I know of him, who harkens to the call
and out in his field, his pastures old, he stands proud and tall.
This caretaker of the land, this keeper of the grasses
he tends for all the animals, and keeps their hidden passes.
The coyote, the wolf, the deer and all form of flying flocks
he allows within and still maintains no harm come to his stock.
He stands atop a small hill, or it could be called a knoll
and gazes the miles and miles away, before the night turns cold.
In the dusklight he can see in his imagining mind
When teepees covered the land, and buffalo in kind.
When streams were clear and no contrails streaked
the air so azure blue still seen here
but only eagles and egrets and raven flew
and deep in the woods roamed the muskrat and deer.
He loves this land, that which is in his care,
he regales in the birdsong of the jays, the hawk and quail.
The turkey they come close to him, with rabbits sitting by
and the only way he shoots them is with a camera to his eye.
He manages the grasses, he nurtures the fields of wheat,
he will work with nature as he can to keep the grasses sweet.
The care for which he lavishes on his temporary land
is all the reason I can speak for which I love this man.
12 August, 1999
Words will always express our feelings true. ~~~ KRJ
Look, then, into thine heart, and write ~~~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
[This message has been edited by Sunshine (edited 08-12-99).]