Finding Feathers

The whispers of the anicents trying to get me to hear,
I cannot hear their voices.

The spirits of the forest trying to live in me,
I am blind to their presence.

I want to see the harvest moon,
my braids down my back,
I want to hear the lone wolf cry,
the reverent hawk fly by.

The beautiful people of the once great nation,
trying again to make me understand.
I don't know if I will.

I want to feel the power.
of the rushing river that flows through my veins.

They tell me there is greatness in my blood,
I have yet to come to know what the greatness is.

I want to see the beautiful dance of the nation,
that once dominated these lands;
and yet I am stirred into ignorance.

Even as the golden corn whispers the past,
I still long for the whisper of the tree,
the stillness of the lake,
the steadiness of the beating drum,
I long for my feathers to be found.