I was spending the day enjoying the land of the Chiloquin Indians along the shore of the Sprague River in Oregon in the Spring of 1998, when I looked up at the sky, becoming entranced with the filmy, whispery clouds, when I felt the need to turn on my recorder, and this poem came to me. When it was complete Gray Feather told me that it was from him, and that he was my new guide.
There you are in all your splendor,
You walk across the sky.
Your feathered headdress fills the dreams
Of dragons as they fly.
You reach your tendrils to the sun,
Releasing just a few,
Creating lace, and cotton candy upon the sky of blue.
You gather sunbeams to your tips,
And send them out to me;
And then your laughter sings its songs
To her, to him, to me.
You change your feathers into plumes
That whisper as they go,
Connecting all the strokes of clouds from raindrops,
and from snow.
It's never-ending, it goes on,
To falter and to fade.
And then you build a whole new song,
A symphony is made.
You drop your tears upon the ground.
You share yourself with me.
Then you go on to other fields,
In laughter and in glee.
You build your feathers once again;
You build your poofs of might.
You send forth shadows, and build new dreams,
To change the skies of night.
Then in the morn you play your games,
You march across the sky.
And when you set it all in place, you catch the wayward eye.
It all begins another day;
Another tale is told.
Behold the glory in the sound of new secrets that unfold.
For here it is, and there you are,
Another feathered sky; another wonder to behold,
Another passion high.