by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She is the sort that hears the song
the hills make after a heavy rain —
a humming sound one hears
first through the finger tips,
then the ears.
She’s the sort that dances with antelope at dusk,
playing in the field until dawn.
She’s the sort that makes the insect song —
not bell, nor click, but a rhythm in-between:
like the sound the silver pieces
sewn on her dress and leggings make,
a sound like wind and bell
as she makes her grand entry
in a circle around the village —
head held high,
her hair flowing behind her,
tasting the song of pure ecstasy
like honey on the tongue.
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