And I, to whom so great a vision was given in my youth,–you see me now a pitiful old man who has done nothing, for the nation’s hoop is broken and scattered. There is no center any longer, and the sacred tree is dead.
—-Black Elk
From my blog (I called it an “Online Journal” then), The Daily Epiphany, Saturday, August 4, 2001
Ghost Dance
There is too much heat and too much driving. I look into the tinted car windows and wonder who these people are and where are they going? Are they looking at me and thinking the same thing? I don’t think so.
There are too many huge houses, identical, newly sprawled across land I used to ride my bicycle through, open plains.
I dance my ghost dance and the suburbs will go away, the buffalo and the coyote will return. The concrete will fly upward. The asphalt will crack and rise in a riot of lifting. Brick and sheetrock tumble upwards, spiraling to the sky in a giant tornado, sweeping the plains clean – down to the black fragrant dirt.
And a piece of flash fiction for today:
Bill Chance 