Under the Ancestral Sun
Beneath the red turning sky
where the sun spirals like memory,
Bear walks slowly—
keeper of what was spoken before words.
The cedars stand as witnesses.
Their roots braid with bones of elders,
their needles whisper
names the wind still remembers.
Each mark upon Bear’s dark hide
is not ornament—
it is story.
It is hunger endured,
winter survived,
promise kept.
The earth beneath his paws
is warm with footsteps
of those who walked before us.
Nothing is lost.
It sinks, it rests, it waits.
The sun above is not only light—
it is the old fire,
the same fire our ancestors
lifted into the first night.
When Bear lowers his head to the soil,
he listens.
He hears drums beneath stone,
breath within roots,
the quiet law of balance—
take only what feeds life,
leave enough for tomorrow.
We are not alone in the forest.
We walk among echoes.
And if we move with reverence,
the ancestors move with us—
in the spiral of sky,
in the shadow of cedar,
in the steady, patient heart
of Bear.
