Slowly walking along three and twenty creek
downstream from the old rice fields
feeling all my old bones creak
but I ignore their appeals.

Ahead are some old Indian mounds
where warriors lay at their last rest.
They recline there making no sounds
hearts long silent in their chests

A breeze builds as I draw near
and a rustle in the trees
like a herd of passing deer
or a quiet voice's tease.

I pause and sit to take a break
beneath an aged hickory
and rub my knees to ease their ache
in this place that's wild and free.

My gaze wanders all around
from creek bank to high tree tops
then alights on the Indian mounds
where it lingers and then stops.

Then beneath these ancient trees
whose rustling leaves sound like static
comes a sound that makes me freeze.
Static turns to voices with a click.

The voices come from those mounds.
Though Cherokee I understand.
Direct contact within the sounds.
They tell me tales about their land.

Tales of hunting buffalo.
Tales of being stalked by lions
Tales of watching their maise grow.
Tales of their living and their dyin'

And in the background soft drums beat
along with their long wooden flutes
in ranges of both slow and fleet.
Even through the old trees' roots.

The mixture produced visuals;
flashes of what used to be
how their lives were to them most usual.
I felt they were inside of me.

I rose then stepped on a dry limb
which ended the message with its crack.
Silence...no more messages from them.
I left quickly doubting I'd go back.