You ride the winds of time my child, like a feather
preened from eagles wings, gentle and protected.
But the time will come, after many harvest moons
have shed their light upon your face,
that the northern winds will howl and call your name.
They will sweep across the plains and tame your flight.
They will lead you to your spirit.
Listen for the heartbeat of
the Ancient One whose voice whispers
from beyond the sun . . .
You will no longer be a child and you will understand.
I will know when you are ready and I will
call you to my side and tell you:
"It has come, Little Feather, the time
to sing the song I gave your heart
when you were born.
Your time of flight is over, and all
that you have learned will serve you well.
Now comes the shining truth,
the blessings from your Father's heart.
You will wear the Hunter's Feather now
and ride with me to the North where
the White Buffalo hides, as he did in my dream.
It is you, who will find him . . . you,
who will lead your Father
You . . . whose time has come."
Joanne Cucinello © 2007
