Pudgy Indian

At the bus stop this morning
it is another dark and beautiful and rainy day.

I look down at the rain laying or moving
on the surface of the asphalt.
I see a golden orb created from a beautiful dance
being done by the street lamp above
and the rain and asphalt surface at my feet.
I realize it is the sun
and all around its golden beauty,
with every raindrop that hits
the rain covered asphalt
a sparkly little dance is done
and it looks like performance art.
The sun with its sparkly rays
created by nature and artificial light.

I cross over the Wiallamette River
like I do most weekday mornings.
The river, she is teasing me.
The rain dancing on her surface
through the artificial lights.
It is like jewelry.
It is like she has put on make up
and is dancing around
in her special beauty.
I laugh and think about this modern dance.
She laughs back at me
and tells me she has been doing this kind of dance
for many more years than I know.
Long before the white man,
Long before the Indian.
She danced with the moon and stars,
She danced with the sun.
She danced with the trees and plants,
She danced with animals birds and fish.
She danced at night.
She danced during the day.
She danced in storms.
She danced in earthquakes.
She has always danced.
She tells me she is still dancing.
She is still singing her songs,
ancient and beautiful,
warm and caring.
Calling and teasing and loving.
She has for centuries,
long before the white man,
long before the red man,
and she still does.
She still dances with all that surrounds her.
She dances with me.
We laugh and sing songs,
Whisper secrets in each others ears.

She told me once
that I was the only one that makes offerings to her.
That made me so sad.
She is so beautiful and wonderful and helpful and caring.
This morning,
as I completed my journey from west to east on the southside sidewalk,
she whispered to me
that I am no longer the only one.
That there are many.
That made me so happy.

Wanna dance?