With the Badger
Slink low, low

I get down into
The burnt orange
Ochre grass of
Snake Back Ridge

Rosehips sour floating
With cedar in my brew

And I drink deeply

Smudge bowl
Caught the burl
And it glowed like
A late summer moon
As I recall that

Round Dance that will never die

Like things hung intently
From them pines and scratched
On the crags

You are not here to scent my
Night braids; yet still hear me
Sing the old songs and smudge
With me towards the Morning Star

Dig my fingers down
Deep now low, low

Hushed with the Snakeroot
Pray us into today

Another circle forms
The Old Shell births the zephyr
Of our Ancestors and the Way

As the pollen from the Shift-Root
Never leaves a trace
Yet is still Medicine upon our face