the eight-track on my nightstand
glides in slow motion with the moon,
first song accompanied by cricket purrs,
a hologram synonymous with the heat
of a summer evening spent dancing.
the drums still echo in my ears, the grass stains
still burn into my white pant legs, the ghost drum tapping 
like a hummingbird’s roar, all wing and thunder
and effervescent motion. This, 
these sacred spaces,
down the river of transition, a current trickling over 
to the next stream, inviting itself in. 
the track spinning, what I mean 
when I say we become the spaces that
carry us,
the movement from one celebration to the next.
hands still sticky from the chili poured over
fry bread, brown paper bag filled with cedar soap
and sage next to new beads, 
my feet still tapping,
my heart still ringing, owedi ziibiin geyaabi giizhiikaa–
this river still running.