and his barefeet
raised dust into dryness.
His feathers rasped.
His rattle hissed.
And the air gathered itself to constrict into cloud, but not rain.
and his feet ached
and on the rocklike plain his people ached.
The corn withered.
Lean winter months feared.
and the dance did not bring rain.
His belief in the dance brought rain.
It took five minutes to write this as prose, and another ten to break it into stanzas and cut the superfluous words. It really wanted to be a poem. I think it has real potential, and I imagine I'll come back to it later for revision.
Dream weaver image from Pixabay, by Free-Photos
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