Little Papoose

Little papoose

swung high in the branches

Hears a song of birds, stars, clouds,

Small nests of birds,

Small buds of flowers.

But he is thinking of his mother with dark hair

Like her horse's mane.

Fair clouds nod to him

Where he swings in the tree,

But he is thinking of his father

Dark and glistening and wonderful,

Of his father with a voice like ice and velvet,

And tones of falling water,

Of his father who shouts

Like a storm.