The sleeping mother earth from her slumber is only awakened by the soft pounding of moccasins on her back, rolling over, stretching with the melting snow, dusting off the old and exposing the new.
Farmers roll like the earth, watching the old and searching for the hand holds of culture, bound in bags, seeds, and crack the rust of last years irrigation tools, from here through dirt trails that lead us to roads to the mouth, edge of the grande gorge our dreams dance into a new a season of earth work, praying already for the drops of rain, uno, dos, tres, every drop like a whistle calling us out to the oldest form of following twisting the flow of the rio, you and I have only to dance together, a thousand year old dance found only in the pulsating of earth energy.
This time of the year many of the corn agri-cultural communities have running ceremonies, running games, old as the stars, that put these laws of moving muscle into the earth, preparing warriors for battle and strengthening young men for the ritual of combat, to ground yourself type games that were played in darkness by the sun and the moon when they were still young.
Much has been lost, more than we can ever imagine, yet we pueblo people are the only ones left doing these waking games. There are no golden shiny trophies to win, there are no winners, no sore losers.
Culture, tradition, memories, old and young, sun and the moon and the heavens win when we show up to play and run these games of ceremony.