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This is the second of four pages about American Indian art and writing. Tomorrow: reprints from two notable books by Indian authors, and art by Fritz Scholder. Thursday: an interview with two novelists. No one could tell

that in the cool morning

after the hard rain

I could feel a wind

coming in from Montana

and could faintly hear

singing from somewhere across

the lake from high mountains At my reflection inside

a cup of black coffee

I smelled woodsmoke

and glanced up into

a court of a hundred

dancers

and jackpine lodgepoles

ritually nested against

the sage smoked sky In my land where the

corn is high and being

dried

faces watch the leaves

and movements of animals

to know when times are

right to tie turtle shells

and deer hoofs around

their legs Here below the spotty

clouds I know it is

time

with blue dragonflies

darting about my arms to head for Crow

for this morning the

wind is blowing just right....

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