I Am Rain. . . wip

Beak curled under wing raven
in the redbud thicket,
I sing you this song
for the curse you sow.
I am rain. . .
I call down the thunder's mother.

Down across the nostrils
of the ears perked Appaloosa I roll,
I feel his withers tremble at my touch.
I make his skin glitter in the moonlight. . .
Behind me, I hear the hum of the grandmothers.
Rain. . . rain. . .
they call my name.

I come in darkness,
from one teepee to another. . .
Pound. . . pound. . . I beat the drum
of a buffalo hide.
I see the hickory smoke
as she rises,
I taste her spirit
as we embrace. . .

The steps of my feet
echo against leather
as I seek. . .
I tap
at the flap
of the door. . .
Grandmother's voice denies me. . .

Go away, rain.
This is the home of your sister.
While I sleep sing your song
to the bitternut hickory tree.
Fatten our corn,
sweeten our beans. . .
Go away, rain.
Do not bother me tonight.
We will talk tomorrow.