Sacred Ground

To Raven, To Raven
He sings his songs,
His calls are short,
But they do last long,
To Crow his brother,
Who flies the valley below,
High above the antelope,
And the plains Buffalo.

Doves flutter among the brush,
As does the wren and thrust,
Living off the bounty of insects,
That arive with the evening winds,
High above the peaks,
The peregrin takes flight,
Among the hilltops,
The Raven songs unflur,
While in the valley below,
Resides the Crow.

Along with the wren and thrust,
The doves flutter in the brush,
There in the evening dusk,
This is their home,
This is their sacred ground.


To watch Hank Real Bird deliver his poetry, a native of verse, is to watch the birds dance upon the ground...Rambin Jack and I were awaitin, trying to get into the room to hear Hank read,
and Hank passed us, and Jack with the tip of his hat, greeted Hank...Hank replied that he was not Hank...Jack managed to get in before me, and eventually I did get in, and was able to watch and hear Hank verse as it flew like a crow through the air...that night, in the "Upper Room", I saw Hank and approached him...I asked Hank who was that man across from him, he introduced him as his brother Henry...the trickers...the coyote...the crow brothers...Hank is the poet...Henry is the artist...and to have these two brothers play that coyote tricker on ole Jack was an opportune not to be missed...and I was caught in their trap as well...I spotted two Ravens one afternoon on the ground and thus came this piece...bless the crow and his brother....