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In the Taipeh, in
the gourd dance,

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I wear a peyote blanket,
half red, half blue,

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across my shoulders.

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I wear a mescal
bean bandolier which

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belonged to my grandfather.

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And in my right hand,
I carry a gourd rattle.

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And in my left, an
eagle feather fan.

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This poem is entitled
"The Eagle Feather Fan."

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"The eagle is my power,
and my fan is an eagle.

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It is strong and
beautiful in my hand.

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And it is real.

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My fingers hold upon it
as if the beaded handle

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with a twist of bristlecone.

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The bones of my hand
are fine and hollow.

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The fan bears them.

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My hand veers in the
thin air of the summit.

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All morning, it scuds
on the cold currents.

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All afternoon, it circles to
the singing, to the drum."

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