Sunny River Writings

I used to lie here, so many years ago, back then I could see for miles, the tall grasses, fields of corn, meadows of wildflowers, but now they are gone. Today I see brick buildings, metal roof tops and cement roadways.

I used to hear the songs of birds, the bugle of an elk, the gobble of the turkey, and the howl of the coyote. Today I hear the roar of car engines, the honking of horns, the loud talking of mothers to their children.

I used to smell the sweet fragrance of the flowers, the smoke of a cook fire, the breeze bringing the river scents. Today I smell gas fumes, the cooking oil from nearby restaurants, the smell of heat and humidity from the asphalt that surrounds me.

I used to feel the bare feet of my tribe, the hoof of the deer, the padded paw of the fox. Today I feel the chopping of the mower, the urine of the city dogs, the hard boots of the white man.

I used to taste freedom, to just be here and to be cared for by the red man. I could feel the gentle rain and heat of the sun. Today the rain is full of chemicals and feels foreign and the sun feels hotter. Today there is no feeling of freedom. I am enclosed by heap after heap of foreign soil. My boundary ringed by buildings and roads.

My senses have been harmed. They are not of my memory. I long for that time again when I feel freedom to see, hear, taste, feel and smell the days of my tribe.

Written at Nikwasi Mound

Franklin, NC