Digital Smoke Signals
by Odin Roark

Yesterdays keep pushing todays into tomorrows,
Yet history’s boyhood games
Remain in limbo with sand paintings
Holding imagination delicate
In earth colors eternal.

From past days shared by ancient shamans,
Now but museum daguerreotype photos,
The smell of clay oven bread,
Sage smoke healing,
The hunt’s curing for winter survival,
All remain layers unvanquished by wind and rain

Such make-believe streaming from
Small fists of dust in blood red and granite gray
Images taught by great grandfather,
Remain cherished lessons from
Yesteryear’s shared trust with nature.

I’m told the press and TV cameras are waiting.
Casino jackpots will be especially loose for the inaugural night.
After all, it’s not everyday a tribe can open their fifth strip mall.
As I stare at the fawn atop the hill behind,
Father says I need to cut the ribbon soon.