Sweet Grass and City Streets

byCharles de Lint

"Bushes and briar,

thunder and fire."

In the ceremony

that is night,

the concrete forest

can be anywhere,

anywhen.

In the wail of a siren

rising up from the distance,

I hear a heartbeat,

a drumbeat,

a dancebeat.

I hear my own

heart

fire

beat.

I hear chanting.

I smell the sweet smoke

of smudge sticks,

of tobacco,

of sweetgrass on the corner

where cultures collide

and wisdoms meet.

And in that moment of grace,

where tales branch,

bud to leaf,

where moonlight

mingles with streetlight,

I see old spirits in new skins,

bearing beadwork,

carrying spare change and charms,

walking dreams,

walking large.

They whisper.

They whisper to each other

with the sound of talking drums,

finger pads brushing taut hides.

They whisper,

their voices carrying,

deliberately,

like distant thunder,

approaching.

"Bushes and briar. . ."