Ho! Brother of the South
who listens with his cryptic mouth,
believing --
I hold your gift of wise Illusion
close to my heart in gentle fusion,
your Medicine to mine--
a sacred Sign.

Shall I dance with the Ghost,
and fast with the Moon...
draw smoke from the Sky-people's Fire?
Shall I sing with the Stone,
and drink from the Sun...
shall I weave my rug with the Briar?
Just so, Coyote call herself,
and wonders how to answer...
Just so, the Dance becomes myself,
while I still seek the Dancer.