In this country there is a place
where in your life you can watch bluffs turn green.
Where earth-mountains are dwarfed
by ones formed in cloud.
In this place you can stand on raised ground
and watch vaulted arches in the air
shadowed gray black with wafting beaded curtains,
shafted with windows of blue.
Balcony doors releasing columns of white
to splash the shadows with highlights.
In this land the bank rocks are smooth worn
by clean waters bounded by fields and woods.
Where floating dancers may light upon you without fear.
Here under the winding, vast, interlaced halls
seated in a train of natural company
you may still hear the voices of the people of the land.
At the Creek of the Bears,
tucked away at the Bend to the River
in the Village of the People of the Large Canoes.
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