Misty of the East Texas Pines

As the mighty eagle flies overhead,
the mighty protector,
searching, watching for us,
as we travel these roads,
in search of truth, and justice,
in our hands, we hold,
a mightly light, that radiates,
as we travel through the pines.

High above the lake,
the mightly eagle,
flies along with the raven,
and will lite upon that window sill,
and peck at the intruders door,
becking for truth to be told.

There along the bank,
the bear, the earthly lynx,
with their companion,
the black panther,
whose voice we know,
in the darken forest,
their eyes are as keen as light,
and their spirits are as bold.

There among the East Texas Pines,
the eagle, raven, flies mighty high,
as the lynx, bear and panther,
searching and looking,
truth will be told,
Mistys spirit stands strong.

The eagle, our mighty protector,
flies side by side with the raven,
while the lynx, panther and the bear,
travel through these mighty pines,
we cherish their search for justice,
justice is ours to behold,
we stand together hand in hand,
for Mistys spirit stands bold.

Creeks of This Land

I have crossed the streams,
those flowing movements,
that come from beneath,
massive groves of Oaks,
trickling down the hillside,
merging with others,
whose journey leads,
to places yet seen.

I have drank from these streams,
whose merger became a name,
so often softly repeated,
dismounting from my steed,
to cup my hands,
to sup, of this nourishment,
to quince my thirst,
whereas,this grace,
I am satisfied.

The names become a chant,
that only the Eagle can sing,
as it flies overhead,
chased by the Hawk,
chased by the Crow,
with a small Sparrow,
trailing behind,
all traveling the red road.

Creeks, and not the native,
thou, without the natives,
all would have been diminished,
in the name of progress,
daring to preserve,
what the creator gave,
all, all of this land.

I ride, I look to the sky,
I dismount, cup my hands,
oh, I do remember thy name,
and feel most blessed,
that my parched lips,
have tasted thy cool waters,
oh Cypress, oh Caney,
oh Brushy, and the Oak,
and least not Bear.

To Sandy I sing my praise,
and dance by the shores of Quicksand,
knowing your dangers,
reaching only for berries,
that hang upon the vines,
eat of the Muscadines,
truly with a satisfied mind,
having riden pass the Cow,
and even Franks Branch,
to settle in the Pocket,
along with the panther and bear.

Oh sing of the waters,
flowing through this land,
these creeks, even Indian,
this still is but a few,
The Crow,the Trout, and so many,
that flow across this land,
we pass by once again,
and must give thanks.