IN WINTER
IN WINTER
| Page | |
|---|---|
| Snow | 39 |
| There Is No Food | 41 |
| The Dogs Are Hungry | 43 |
| Melting Snow Water | 44 |
| Night | 47 |
| Story Telling | 48 |
| It-Is-Twisted | 50 |
| Pawn | 51 |
| Morning | 53 |
| Shoveling the Snow | 54 |
| Cat's Cradles | 55 |
| Father Comes Back | 56 |
| Supper | 58 |
| Sleep | 59 |
| Morning Sun | 60 |
| Going to the Sing | 61 |
| The Sing | 63 |
| The Betting | 66 |
| The Race | 68 |
| Going Home | 70 |
SNOW
My mother's land is white with snow.
The sandwash and the waterhole,
the dry grass patches and the
cornfield hide away
under the white blanket,
under the snow blanket
that covers the land.
The air is filled
with falling snow,
thick snow,
soft snow
falling,
falling.
Beautiful Mountain
and the red rock canyons
hide their faces
in snow clouds.
The wind cries.
It piles the snow
in drift banks
against the poles
of the sheep corral.
It pushes against the door
of my mother's hogan,
and it cries.
The wind cries out there
in the snow and the cold.
My mother's hogan is cold.
Snow blows down the smoke hole.
Water drops on the fire.
The wet wood smokes
and keeps its flames to itself.
The sun
has not shown his face
to tell us
what time of day it is.
I do not like to ask my mother,
"Is it noon now?" or
"Is it almost night?"
because
she might think
I wanted it to be time to eat.
She might think
I wanted food.
THERE IS NO FOOD
There is no food.
There is no flour nor cornmeal
to make into bread.
There is no coffee
that my mother could boil
for us to drink.
There is no food.
The corn my father planted
in his field
is gone.
We ate it.
There was so little.
The corn pile in the storehouse
was not high enough
to last for long.
It is gone.
Now all of it is gone.
There is no food.
There is food
at the Trading Post
in sacks and in boxes,
in bins and in cans
on the shelf.
There is food at the Trading Post,
but the Trading Post
is far away
and snowdrifts
and snow clouds
are heavy between.
There is food at the Trading Post
but my father has nothing left
of the hard, round money
that he must give
to the Trader
for the food.
There is no food here
in my mother's hogan.
When it is time to eat,
we talk of other things,
but not of hunger.
This thing called hunger
is a pain
that sits inside me.
At first it was little,
but now
it grows bigger
and bigger.
It hurts me
to be hungry.
THE DOGS ARE HUNGRY
The dogs are hungry, too.
They crowd in the hogan.
The black one
is not sleeping now.
He lies with his head
on his paws
and looks at nothing.
The yellow one whimpers.
He has worked hard,
but there is no food.
The gray shadow dog stays outside
close to the tree trunk
making no sound
asking for nothing.
I think she knows
nobody wants her.
MELTING SNOW WATER
The sheep are wet and cold.
They are hungry, too.
If the snow keeps falling,
it will be bad for the sheep.
Perhaps
that is why the wind cries.
Perhaps
the wind is sorry
for the sheep.
That is what I think.
My mother talks to my father.
Together
they go out to shovel snow.
The ruffles on my mother's skirts
make pretty marks on the top
of the snow whiteness.
My mother and my father
shovel a round place
clean of snow
out near the sheep corral.
They will build a fire
to melt snow into water
to give to the sheep.
It takes much wood
to make a fire
to melt snow into water,
but if the sheep have water
to drink
they do not hunger so much.
When the round place
is clear of snow,
my mother comes into the hogan
for dry wood
to make the outdoor fire.
She picks a stick
from our small pile
beside the fire.
She picks another
until she has a little armful.
My mother picks them up slowly
for our pile is so small.
My father comes into the hogan.
He stamps his feet.
Little hills of dirty snow
melt slowly by them
on the hogan floor.
It takes a lot of snow
in my mother's washtub
to melt enough water
for the sheep.
When my mother comes again
into the hogan
she is tired.
Her poor face
is dark with cold.
I put my arms
around my mother's knees.
It is the only way I know
to show her
that I am sorry she is cold.
NIGHT
Night is slow in coming,
but at last it comes
moving through the snowstorm.
Coyotes howl, far away.
Nearby the wind cries.
The wet wood smokes.
Snow water drips down
through the smoke hole.
STORY TELLING
Then
my father tells us stories.
Long stories
made up of many words.
His words have power.
They have strength.
They seem to hold me.
They seem to warm me.
They seem to feed me.
My father's words,
they comfort me.
His words have power.
My father tells
The Star Story.
"When the world was being made,
being made."
My father tells us,
"When the Gods were
placing stars,
the stars,
the stars in patterns
in the sky,
coyote stole the star bag."
Coyote spilled the stars out
in the sky,
helter skelter in the sky,
when the world was being made.
Softly
my father tells it,
the story of the stars.
Outside,
the wind
and the night
push against
my mother's hogan door.
Outside,
big flakes of snow
fall thickly,
fall softly,
fall steadily.
Inside,
snow water drips
down the smoke hole
and the words of
my father's voice
drop softly
into the quiet
of my mother's hogan.
"IT-IS-TWISTED"
The Star Story
made my mother think
of the string game,
"It-Is-Twisted."
She said that the Spider People
gave it to us
to use in winter evenings.
My mother showed us
how to make the game.
She made
Twin-Stars and Many-Stars,
Big-Star and Horned-Star
with pieces of string.
PAWN
Just now,
I heard myself saying,
"I want some bread."
My father is not talking now.
He is looking at me.
My mother is looking at me.
They do not know it was not I,
but this hunger pain inside me
that said those words,
"I want some bread."
They do not know that,
and I do not know
how to tell them.
My father sits still.
He sits quietly.
He is thinking.
My mother looks down
at her hands
where they are resting
in the folds of her skirt.
Outside,
the wind cries
the wind cries
to my thinking.
Slowly
my father takes his concho belt
from about his waist.
Slowly
his fingers touch the belt,
counting,
counting,
counting the conchos.
Slowly
my mother takes her coral string
from about her neck.
She looks at it.
She looks at it.
Slowly
she puts it back again
around her neck.
Then
my mother
takes from her finger
her largest turquoise ring.
My father puts his concho belt
upon the floor.
My mother puts her turquoise ring
upon the floor.
The concho belt
and the turquoise ring
make a splash of color
in the gray-lighted hogan.
He will pawn them
because our food
is getting low.
The concho belt
and the turquoise ring
are for pawn.
They are for pawn.
Pawn to the Trader
for food.
Pawn to the Trader
that we may eat.
Our hard goods,
our possessions
we give them
for salt
and for flour.
They are for pawn.
Who knows
when we can buy them back.
The snow water drops
from the smoke hole
like tears.
The wind cries.
Quickly
my father sings
a funny song
to make laughter come
to my mother and me.
MORNING
The wind lies still.
It has not gone away
I know,
for I can feel it
lying there outside
hiding in the snow.
The wind lies still
behind the snowdrifts,
but sometimes
it starts up
with a low cry,
then falls again to hide.
Cold bends over the land.
The white feathers of snow
fall slower and slower.
My mother and my father
get up early.
My mother will kill a sheep
so my father can eat
something
before he starts
for the Trading Post.
My father waits
for my mother
to butcher the sheep
and to cook a piece
for his breakfast.
Then my father finds his horse.
He ties an empty flour sack
behind his saddle.
He wraps his blanket about him
and leaning his body
against the storm
he rides to the Trading Post.
My father rides
into the snow-filled world.
His blanket and his horse
are the only colors
moving
through the white.
Snow comes into my heart
filling it with cold
when I see
my father ride away.
SHOVELING SNOW
For a little while
I sit in the hogan
thinking of my father
riding along the snowy trail
to the Trading Post.
Snow stops falling.
Cold blows its blue breath
across the white.
I help my mother shovel snow.
We make a path to the sheep corral
and to my grandmother's hogan.
The snow, so soft to feel,
is hard to shovel.
The cold slaps at my face.
It traps my hands and my feet
in icy feeling.
My mother takes me
into the hogan.
She rubs my face and hands
and my feet with snow.
Soon
little hot pains
come to play
with my cold fingers
and my cold toes.
Soon the icy feeling goes away.
CAT'S CRADLES
The day moves slowly.
My father does not come back
along the trail.
It is far to the Trading Post.
The snow is deep.
I think of my father
and his concho belt.
I look at my mother's finger.
One finger looks bare
without its turquoise ring.
I pull my sleeve down
over my bracelet.
Perhaps
I should have given it
to my father.
My grandmother comes to see us.
She brings a piece of bread
for me
and for my mother
to eat with our meat.
She brings a piece of string.
She shows me how
to make Cat's Cradles.
She shows me how
to make "It-Is-Twisted."
We make Bird's-Nest and Butterflies
and Coyotes-Running-Apart
with the piece of string.
FATHER COMES BACK
We hear my father singing
as he rides along
the snowy trail.
My grandmother goes to her hogan
and my mother and I,
we stand together,
laughing.
We stand together
outside our door,
happy because
my father comes back again.
Behind my father's saddle
is tied
the flour sack filled with food.
It is not empty now,
but a sack
of bumps and bumps,
and heavy looking.
In front of him
my father carries
a dry wood box
that the Trader gave him.
My mother takes the sack of food.
I take the dry wood box.
My father takes the saddle
from his horse.
We go into the hogan
with our bundles in our arms.
My mother breaks the box
with her foot.
She breaks the pieces across her knee.
She feeds them to the fire.
The dry wood box
makes the fire flame dance
in the hogan fire.
My mother puts meat to cook.
She mixes flour and water,
a little ball of lard,
a little pinch of salt
in our round tin bowl.
She takes some out
and pats it flat,
and pats it round,
and pats it thin,
and throws it in
a kettle full of boiling fat.
This hunger pain inside me
is bigger now than I am.
It is the smell of cooking food
that makes it grow, I think.
Soon the fried bread
in the hot fat
swells big and brown.
Soon the meat
in the stew pot
makes bubbling noises.
Coffee boils
smelling strong and good.
The hunger pain
is now so big
I cannot understand
Why I do not see it.
SUPPER
Now we are eating
the good food.
We eat slowly.
We eat a long time.
The hunger pain is gone.
It went somewhere,
but I do not know when,
it left so quickly.
My father tells us
that the wife of Tall-Man's brother
suffers from something.
She is sick.
My father tells us
that tomorrow
there will be a Sing
for this woman
who has sickness.
We will go,
he says,
if the sun shines tomorrow.
We will go to the hogan
of the wife of Tall-Man's brother.
SLEEP
Now that I am warm
and have no pain
and feel well fed
with my mother's good cooking,
I feel sleepy
and glad.
Lying on my blanket bed
on the floor of the hogan,
I say to myself
over and over,
"If the sun shines tomorrow
we will go to the Sing."
MORNING SUN
Last night went quickly
with sleeping.
It is tomorrow
now.
I open my eyes
to a beautiful world
of sun and snow.
Everywhere I look
the snow shines
as if someone
had sprinkled it
with broken bits of stars.
My father says,
"snow is good for the land.
When the sun melts it
the thirsty sand
drinks in the snow water."
Grass patches show again.
They look fresh and clean.
The goats hurry about
eating all they can.
Even the sheep move
more quickly,
eating.
GOING TO THE SING
My father goes for dry wood.
He has to go to the foothills
to get it.
My mother cooks bread and meat.
I sit by the door in the sunshine
and think about the Sing.
My grandmother comes
to my mother's hogan.
She will look after the sheep
while we are gone to the Sing.
The sun shines.
The sun shines.
Soon we will go
to the Sing,
the Sing.
After awhile
my father comes back with
the wagon.
He piles the wood near the hogan.
He says he is ready
to go to the Sing
and we are ready, too.
It is not far.
Not long after
the sun has finished with the day
we will get there.
We will get to the hogan
of the wife of Tall-Man's brother.
We will be at the Sing,
the Sing,
the Sing.
The ruts in the road
are deep
and frozen.
The wheels of the wagon
have a song of their own.
I sit in the back of the wagon
in a nest made of blankets.
I listen to the song
of the rolling wagon wheels.
My father sits on the wagon seat.
He is driving his horses.
My mother sits beside him.
Straight and tall
my mother sits
on the wagon seat
beside my father.
My father sings
as he drives along.
He is happy.
He sings, "Now is winter.
Thunder sleeps.
Falls the snow.
Thunder sleeps.
Grass is gone.
Thunder sleeps.
Birds are gone.
Thunder sleeps.
Warmth is gone from the sands,
from the red rocks,
from the canyons.
Thunder sleeps.
It sleeps."
In my father's wagon
we go.
Behind my father's horses
we go.
On the trail of the Holy Songs
we go
to hear the voices of the Gods.
THE SING
It will be a long time
before the night sky bends down
and the stars hang low
and the supper fires
of the camping people
dot the night.
Our wagon
comes within the circles
of supper fires,
comes within the circle
of firelight,
and I see all the People
who have come to the Sing.
There are many People here.
There are many horses here.
There are many wagons here.
There is one truck.
It makes me happy to see
all of the People
walking around
and standing and sitting.
It makes me happy to see
all the colors that there are
in the skirts of the women
in the shirts of the men
and in the blankets
that all the People wear.
I can see
the horses,
all the horses.
I can see a race horse
that belongs to a man
my uncle knows.
After the Sing is over,
the men will race their horses.
My father will bet
which horse will win.
And then
perhaps
he will win
a better concho belt
than the one
he has in pawn
to the Trader.
There is a new hogan
built just for the Sing.
There are some shelters
built just for the Sing,
and at one side
is the Cook Shade
where all kinds of foods
are cooking.
The smell of food
makes me happy.
I think
it is good
to be happy
when food is near.
As it gets darker
more fires are lighted
and within the circle
a big one burns.
Smoke gets in my eyes
and I can taste it
in my mouth.
In the folds of my mother's blanket,
in the warmth of my
mother's blanket,
in the quiet of my
mother's blanket,
close to her heart
I sleep
and awaken
to hear the Gods,
the Singers of Songs.