By N. Scott Momaday

I played at words.
It was a long season.

Soft syllables,
Images that shimmered,
Intricate etymologies.

They cohered in wonder.
I was enchanted.

My soul was at risk.
I struggled
Towards hurt,
Towards healing,
Towards passion,
Towards peace.

I wheeled in the shadow of a hawk.
Dizziness came upon me;
The turns of time confined and confounded me.

I lay in a cave,
On a floor cured in blood.

Ancient animals danced about me,
Presenting themselves formally,
In masks.

And there was I, among ancient animals,
In the formality of the dance,
Remembering my face in the mirror of masks.