Pride's Whisper

Pride’s Whisper

It was the time of Rityp
and all through the Hogan,
tucked in dark folds and corners
one could see the hasyna bloom,
as the terrible wind howled proceeding
the tiotypen thunder, crackling loud
right through the thick swaboll hides
like a runaway herd of cosorses,
heads down, trampling everything
in their shaggy path.

I stood outside wearing the warmth of
my buckskin hydeamp, preventing the pounding
ice pellets from chilling me to the bone—
for even a shaman, an elder tribiluk
will shiver when caught in winter’s maw.

“I am Votoectr,” I bellered in my small voice,
but the wild wind just tore at my braids
and clenched its teeth to my song.

“You are nothing,” moaned the torrent of the air,
“Less than the red alkie beneath your moccasins;
never forget I am Zieseabo, the god of wind,
master of storms—even the mighty swaboll
will not attempt to fly against my will!”

I bowed deeply to him, my feathers bending,
my ribbons descending, and fled
back to my stone hearth, to my fire,
and sat hunched over and cramped
as my fists stayed clenched all night.


Glenn Buttkus December 2008