Spirit Winds

A poem inspired by contemplating Native American culture; specifically some impressions I got when envisioning certain elements of their spirituality. I'm having trouble coming up with a title. Ideas?

 

A blaze of crimson in the sky

A voice rumbling in the earth,

the chants of our ancestors echoing,

invoke the primordial Powers of Creation,

the spirits of the Iroquois, Apache, Cherokee,

the Navajo, Sioux, Cheyenne, and all tribes,

whose living memory dwells in the ochre rock,

in the unbreakable granite monoliths.

Far upon the quest for the origin of dreams,

the whisper of the towering sequoias soothes me.

Asleep in the wild grass, a vision returns ...

A great horse has come, tireless, fearless, 

full of thunder, rearing to challenge the horizon,

its neigh reaches across high deserts and canyons,

shattering mirages formed of distance and hours.

Behold, the First People are returning,

through dust, eons, weaving generations together

to fulfill the Sacred Hoop, continuing on the path

over parched lands of red, orange, and beige rock,

always guided by the cry of dawn's eagle.

Their long march, of blood, tears, and prayers,

brings the rain clouds, at last.

Trails of yesterdays converge with our voyage,

into hidden, turquoise pools, flowing of revelation,

through mazed forests, skyward snows, and fierce rivers,

I have found them again, the ghosts I sought,

those mustangs that roam the sierras,

painted with symbols of truth and strength.

They gallop through mists, under constellations,

whinnying for the forgotten warrior mystics,

conveying them across the Ridge of Stars,

to Earth, so they may unify the Circle,

stirring medicine to heal the Mother,

Her pups, cubs, and kin.

The spirits are coming,

like a wind of many colors