With our bodies for percussion we dance around the fire,
listening to our animal instincts, the sounds we can make
with our hands, hips, feet, legs, arms, tongue, mouth, lips;
we know it is not by words, but by meaning that we communicate.
We aim to unite our restless spirits with the Earth, to assimilate,
to find ourselves in the yoke of a mountain and not to wake to stir, but to stare
and settle into a liquid force. Still we twist our waists, shaking the
fringe to separate time into the beats of wooden beads as if saying, “No, no, no.”
Low drums pound in the distance, faster and higher into rattles.
The snake bites only if you slow down, so no one falters;
we’d keep spinning if only we’d burst into feathers and never be
heard from again.