Thunder Birds approach on the horizon...
just before the rain -
four-legged's tapping and banging on this old house
and its skeletal windowpanes...
rain dancing across the tin roof
barely touching the gutter,
the thunder growls,
and south winds howl...
earth, bones and walls begin to shudder.
The Owl perched above the loft sits frozen..
yet always keeping his even and steady scowl.
The Ancient Ones spoke of these harbingers...
These Thunder Birds,
and how they would foretell of the Storms to come,
They come now...
in my dreams...
in my Vision..
before the thunder clouds,
in a crash...
in a whisper.
The clear reflection in this still pool
mirrors my perceptions now...
as before...
but soon reflections obscured,
Choked by the red clay that swirls within its depths.
My friend, the dark bird...
lost in the ever turbulent streams above the clouds,
will soon find its roost...
...and the Grandfather will bring us the Holy Light,
born from the heart of the eastern mountains.

Gregory Sexton