She is happy to see you.
She extends her hand and holds yours for a long while.
Her head is bowed, and you barely hear the soft words that she speaks.
She nestles her head against your chest and smiles contentedly,
and she gives a final squeeze to your hand before letting go.
She is your beloved grandmother, and you are home again in
To hear the language of The People is to hear the song of life.
It is at once, a swaying cornfield; a crackling fire; a dancing plant.
It is the sound of many tears and childlike giggles, ancient songs and
prayers. And, it is all captured in the lenses of binoculars held by
concealed men, dressed in black, who want the song to end.
This is a land where spirits who have gone before, return,
to caress your face in the wind. It is a land of a million stars.
It is a Way of ‘Geronimo coffee’ cooking on a wood burning stove;
frybread and honey; respect for the wisdomkeepers; love of the children;
freedom; purity; heaven. And, it is all captured in the lenses of
binoculars, held by concealed men, dressed in black, who want this Way
For All Our Relations...